Pelagia Jackson and the Olympians: TLT
by Fae51
Summary: Pelagia Jackson's life is turning into a disaster, and it all started with when her algebra teacher, Mrs. Dodds, turned into a huge, bat thing. (T to be safe)
1. My Teacher Turns to Dust

Pelagia Jackson & the Olympians: TLT

_**Disclaimer: I don't own PJO, Rick Riordan does. I don't own anything.**_

_**Summary: Pelagia Jackson's life is turning into a disaster, and it all started with when her algebra teacher, Mrs. Dodds, turned into a huge, bat thing.**_

* * *

Hi, my name is Pelagia Jackson and I'm a demigod. Okay, so maybe the was a little straightforward and premature because the story barely started but trust me, it's better for you to know it now.

So most of you must be thinking, 'Wow, that's so cool, I wish I was one' and all that, but no. You don't want to be a demigod, not at all. If you are one and think this book is a helpful guide to the life of one, don't even read the next paragraph. Hades, you shouldn't even be reading this one. If you aren't one, great, read on. Pretend I said nothing. Though if you feel anything, though abnormal, don't start freaking out about having a mosquito bite, close the book.

And that's a great cue for me to tell you how it all started, how my life started turning into a nightmare. But hey, when you're a demigod, your life's a nightmare right when you're born.

I go to Yancy Academy, or I used to, until I got expelled. I've been expelled before, actually every single school I've ever been to I have gotten expelled from, but this one was different.

At my fifth-grade school, I went to the Saratoga battlefield from the Revolutionary war, and there were all these weapons and dangerous materials. No, no one got hurt, luckily. They had cannons there though, and I accidentally set one off and BOOOM! Let's just say that the bus driver didn't appreciate that.

At my fourth-grade school, I went to an aquarium, best field trip I ever had, by the way, and we had a behind the scenes tour with the sharks. The shark tank was pretty awesome, all different sharks and fish, but it had a lever next to it. You can't really blame me for pulling the lever, humans are naturally curious. I mean come on, it was so tempting! The lever was for scuba divers, though, and none of us had our bathing suits. Figure it out from there.

And for my third grade school…actually I don't think I need to explain anymore, you get the point.

At this one, I was determined to be well behaved and everything. We were going to the Met, Metropolitan Museum of Art, to look at ancient Greek and Roman things. I know right, sounds _fascinating_. But our Latin teacher, Mr. Brunner, was leading the trip, so it might not be as bad as it sounds.

Mr. Brunner was cool, though you probably wouldn't think that at first glance. He was a middle-aged man with a motorized wheelchair, thinning hair, and he always smelled like coffee. But he told jokes and stories in class, let us play games, and also had an awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons. His class was the only one that didn't make me feel as if it were nap time.

Anyway, going into the city, I had to put up with Nick Bobofit, freckled, red-haired boy, hitting my best friend, Grover, in the back of his head with his peanut-butter and ketchup sandwich, which stuck in his curly, brown hair.

No offense to Grover, but he was an easy target. He was scrawny, cried when he got frustrated, and probably held back a couple of grades because he had the start of a beard on his chin. He had a note excusing him from PE because he was crippled, but he could be fast when he wanted to. You should see him when Yancy Academy was serving enchiladas in the cafeteria, he could be in the Olympics.

Though, back on topic, I was beginning to get annoyed with Nick. Actually, scratch that, I was beginning to get _even more _annoyed with Nick. He knew that I wasn't allowed to say or do anything because the principal already threatened to kill me, by in-school suspension, if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining have happened.

"Oh, I am so going to murder him," I muttered.

Grover tried to get me to calm down, "Don't worry, it doesn't hurt. Besides, I like peanut butter."

"Yeah," I said, "I do too, but not in my hair!"

"I don't care," Grover said, dodging another piece of the revolting sandwich.

"Oh, I don't care if I'm on probation!" I growled, starting to stand up.

"Yes, you do," he reminded me. "Besides, it's not like the principal is fair to you."

When I think about it, I wish I would've hit Nick right then and there, but, of course, I didn't.

Mr. Brunner led the tour into the museum, his wheelchair guiding us through echoey gallerias, orange and black pottery, and massive, marble sculptures. The thing I surprised about was that these things were about two thousand, three thousand years old.

He gathered us near a thirteen-foot column with a sphinx on top, and started telling us how it was a stele, a grave marker, for a girl about our age. I tried to listen, I really did, but everyone was yapping around me and I couldn't hear a thing. Every time I even tried to tell them to shut up, the evil math teacher, Mrs. Dodds, would glare at me, as if I was doing something wrong by trying to listen to the teacher.

Mrs. Dodds was a little teacher from Georgia, who, even though she was like fifty, decided to wear a leather jacket, which matched her facial expression looking mean enough to drive a motorcycle into your locker. Halfway through the year, she arrived, when the last math teacher had a nervous breakdown. From her first day, she had loved Nick, and figured I was some girl who was a demon. And don't let her fool you with that, "Now, honey," she says real sweet because you just get detention, and for one whole month, too.

One time, after a particularly gruesome detention, making me erase math answers out of a text book until midnight, I said to Grover, "I don't think Mrs. Dodds is human," and he looked at me, not a note of playfulness in his expression of voice and said, "You're absolutely correct!"

Finally, when Nick behind me started snickering with his buddies about some dude on the stele who was naked, I snapped, "Will you just shut up already?"

The bad part was that I said it louder than I had meant it to be, the whole group laughed and Mr. Brunner paused his story, "Do you have a comment, Miss Jackson?"

"No, sir," I said, my face totally redder than Nick's hair.

Mr. Brunner pointed to a stele next to me, "Do you think, Miss Jackson, you can tell us what this is representing?"

I looked a little nervous until I saw the actual carving, thank goodness I recognized it. I wrinkled my nose a bit, "That's Kronos eating his kids, right?"

"Yes," Mr. Brunner replied, gesturing for me to continue. "And he did this why?"

"Well," I racked my brain to remember, "Kronos was a king god…no Titan, right?"

Mr. Brunner nodded.

"And…he…uh…didn't trust his kids, who were gods. So, Kronos…uh…ate them. His wife…uh…what was her name? Reyna, no Rhea! So, his wife, Rhea, hid baby Zeus, the youngest, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. When Zeus got older, he tricked his dad"—I wrinkled my nose even more—"to throw up his siblings. And then, the gods and the Titans had a huge war and the gods won."

Behind me, I heard Nick say to his friend, "Why do we need to know this? It's not like when we're applying for a job it'll say 'Why did Kronos eat his kids?'"

"Thank you," Mr. Brunner said, "And why, to paraphrase Mr. Bobofit's brilliant question, does this matter in real life?"

"Busted," Grover smirked.

"Shut up!" Nick glared, face redder than mine had been.

I ignored him, and I pondered his question for a while. Finally, I couldn't think of an answer, "I'm not sure, sir."

"Well," Mr. Brunner said disappointed, "I see. Half credit, though, Miss Jackson. Zeus did manage to have Kronos disgorge his siblings by feeding him a mixture of wine and mustard. Kronos' other children, being immortal, had been growing and living in the Titan lord's stomach; the gods then had a war with the Titans and defeated their father. They sliced their father with his own scythe and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. And while we're on that cheerful note, Mrs. Dodds, would you please lead us to lunch?"

The class left, most of the boys acting like complete idiots, which, of course, they are, save for Grover.

Speaking of Grover, he and I were about to follow when Mr. Brunner said, "Miss Jackson."

"Keep going, Grover," I told him, I knew this was coming. "I'll catch up with you later." He left, leaving me with the Latin teacher.

"Yeah, sir," I said to him.

"You must learn the answer," Mr. Brunner said.

"To what?" I asked.

"The question," Mr. Brunner said.

"The Titan question?" I asked again.

"No, real life, and how your studies are relevant," Mr. Brunner replied.

"Oh," I said, "right."

"What you learn from me is crucially significant to life, and I will expect you to treat it as such," Mr. Brunner said. "I will only accept the best from you Pelagia Jackson."

I wanted to get angry; this guy pushed me too hard. Okay, he was alright when he dressed up in a suit of armor and shouted: "What ho!" challenging us to run to the board and name every single Greek and Roman person and who they worshipped. Mr. Brunner excepted me to be as good as everyone else, despite the fact I have ADHD and dyslexia and never made it above a C- in my entire life. Wait, scratch that, he didn't expect me to be as good, he expected me to be better, and I couldn't learn all the names and facts and spell them correctly.

"I'll try harder, Mr. Brunner," I said.

Mr. Brunner looked at the stele of the girl before he said, "Go eat your lunch, Pelagia."

The class was on the front steps of the museum. Overhead, a storm was brewing, clouds turning darker and darker. Maybe it was global warming or whatever, the weather had been acting weird since Christmas.

Nobody else seemed to notice, or most likely cared, about the weather. Some of the boys were pelting these poor pigeons with crackers. Nick was trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and Mrs. Dodds wasn't seeing a thing. Just a normal Yancy field trip.

"Over here," a voice called and I turned to see Grover, sitting at the edge of a fountain.

"Don't want to be seen with this freak school?" I asked grinning, he was quite predictable.

Grover shrugged in response and I laughed.

"Don't blame you," I said, "Wouldn't want to be seen like I know them."

"So did you get detention?" Grover asked, changing the subject.

"Nope," I said. "But I wish he would just lay off of me, I'm far from a genius."

I watched the cabs driving past Fifth Avenue and thought of my mom; she lived a little uptown from here. I wish I could just call a taxi and go home. She'd be happy to see me, but then she'd tell me that I'd have to go back Yancy.

I was about to eat my sandwich when Nick and appeared in front of me with his stupid friends. He dumped his lunch on Grover's head.

"Whoa, sorry, it just slipped," Nick said, looking at the Grover with a small smile.

Stay calm, stay calm. Deep breaths. Count to ten. 1…2…3…4

I don't remember if I got to ten, because the whole next scene was blank to me and the next thing I remember is Nick in the fountain. "Pelagia pushed me!" he screamed. I saw him smirk when Mrs. Dodds came over to help him out.

I heard some whispering behind me from some kids: "—Look what happened to Nick—"

"—whoa, did you see that—"

"—that's sick, the water just like grabbed him—"

I seriously had no idea what they were talking about; all I knew was that I was in a lot of trouble.

Mrs. Dodds insisted on getting Nick a new shirt to be nice and blah, blah, blah. After a while, though, she turned to me and there was some type of triumphant fire in her eyes. "Now, honey—"

"I know, I know. A month erasing textbooks," I grumbled.

That apparently wasn't the right thing to say.

She glared at me, "Come with me."

"Wait!" Grover yelled. "It was me, I pushed him."

I stared at him in shock. Grover was terrified of Mrs. Dodds.

"I don't think so, Mr. Underwood," Mrs. Dodds told him.

"No—"

"Mr. Underwood, you will stay here!"

"It's okay," I said to Grover. "Thanks for trying, though."

Nick grinned and I glared at him.

I turned to face Mrs. Dodds but she wasn't next to me. I saw her at the museum entrance, watching me impatiently.

What? How did she get there so fast?

Moments like that happen a lot, where a puzzle piece in time falls out and I miss things. The school counselor said it was a part of my ADHD, I misinterpret things.

This time, though, I wasn't sure.

I followed Mrs. Dodds.

When I was about halfway up the steps, I looked at Grover. He looked pale and panicking. Grover kept looking from Mr. Brunner to me, as if he wanted Mr. Brunner to interfere or something. Mr. Brunner, however, was too involved in his novel to notice anything.

When I looked back up, Mrs. Dodds was gone. She was now inside of the building, at the end of the entrance hall.

So she's going to make me buy Nick a new shirt.

I was wrong.

I trailed behind her deeper into the museum. We stopped at the Greek and Roman gallery, where Mrs. Dodds had her arms crossed in front of a marble frieze of the Greek gods. She was making a noise, too. She was growling.

Even without the noise, I would've been nervous. Being alone with a teacher is awkward, but being alone with Mrs. Dodds is just plain creepy. It didn't help that she was looking at the decoration like she wanted to tear it apart.

"We've been having problems with you, Miss Jackson," she said.

Deciding not to take any risks, I said, "Sorry, ma'am."

She tugged on her cuffs of her jacket, "Did you really think you would get away with it?"

Her eyes stared at me, but wasn't mad. It wasn't even furious. It was evil.

Whoa there, Jackson. She's not going to hurt you. She's a teacher.

"I'll try harder," I said.

Thunder shook the building.

"We are not fools, Pelagia Jackson," she said. "Confess and the consequences will be less horrific."

What the heck was she talking about?

Maybe they found out about the candy I have been selling out of my dorm. Or maybe they found out about how I got my essay on _Tom Sawyer _from the Internet and never read the book. Were they going to take my grade away? Or worse, make me read the book?

"Well?" Mrs. Dodds demanded.

"I don't know…" I started but she cut me off.

"Your time is up!" she snarled.

The weirdest thing then happened. Her eyes began to glow, her fingers stretched into talons, her jacket turned into black, leathery wings, and she grew fangs. She wasn't a teacher; she was some demon with wings, claws, and a mouth full of fangs and she was about to slice me to shreds.

You think things couldn't get even weirder? You're wrong.

Mr. Brunner, who had been in front of the museum like a second ago, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery. He had a pen in his hands, too.

"What ho, Pelagia!" he shouted, tossing the pen in the air.

Mrs. Dodds lunged at me, her claws in front of her.

With a scream, I dodged and caught the pen. It wasn't a pen, though. It was a sword—Mr. Brunner's sword he always used on tournament days.

Mrs. Dodds spun and glared at me with a murderous look in her eyes.

I was shaking so badly I almost dropped the sword.

"Die, honey!" she snarled and flew straight at me.

I was terrified and I only had one option: I swung the sword.

The blade hit her in the shoulder and passed clean through her as if she was made of water. _HISS!_

Mrs. Dodds exploded into what looked sand, leaving nothing but a dying screech and chill of evil in the air, like those two demon red eyes were still watching me.

I was alone.

There was a ballpoint pen in the air but Mr. Brunner wasn't there. Nobody but me.

I was shaking. I'm going crazy, I should be on medication. There's something wrong with me.

When I went back outside, it was raining. Grover was still sitting by the fountain, but he had a museum map over his head, as if that would shield him from the rain. Nick was standing near his cronies, grumbling to them. He was even more soaked from the rain, as if he just jumped in a pool in his clothes.

He saw me and glared at me, "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt, you deserve it."

Mrs. Kerr? "Who's Mrs. Kerr?"

"Our teacher, idiot," Nick said. I probably looked confused because he rolled his eyes and turned away, he went back to chatted with his friends.

I walked over to Grover, "Where's Mrs. Dodds?"

He hesitated but at last replied, "Who?"

He was messing with me.

"This isn't funny, dude," I said. "This is serious."

I walked over to Mr. Brunner, who was reading his novel as if he never moved.

"That would be my pen, Miss Jackson. Thank you for returning it, but in the future would you please bring your own writing utensil?" he said.

I gave Mr. Brunner his pen, which I forgot I was holding.

"Where's Mrs. Dodds?" I asked.

He stared at me blankly, "Who?"

"Mrs. Dodds, sir. The pre-algebra teacher," I replied.

He sat forward looking concerned, "Pelagia, there is no Mrs. Dodds. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are sure you're alright?"

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**That's the first chapter, hope you guys enjoyed!**

**-Fae51**


	2. A Pair of Deadly Socks

**_A Pair of Deadly Socks_**

Okay, I was used to occasional bizarre experiences, but this was more than I could handle. This was a 24/7 hallucination. For the rest of the year, all of Yancy Academy seemed to be playing a prank on me. They acted as if Mrs. Kerr—a perky blond woman whom I have never before seen in my life until she got on the bus from the Met to Yancy—had been our pre-algebra teacher since Christmas.

Occasionally, I would bring up Mrs. Dodds, to see if someone would mess up, but they would just stare at me as if I was insane.

I almost believed that Mrs. Dodds never existed.

Almost.

Grover couldn't fool me, though. Every time I would mention Mrs. Dodds around him, he would freeze up, avoid eye contact, hesitate for about three seconds, and then claim she didn't exist.

There was something going on. Something had happened at the museum. I didn't think about Mrs. Dodds often, but sometimes I would have nightmares about her talons and leathery wings and would wake up in cold sweat.

The freak weather continued, and that didn't help my mood one bit. One night, a thunderstorm blew open the windows of my dorm. Less than a week later, the biggest tornado ever spotted in the Hudson Valley touched down only fifty miles from Yancy Academy. A current event we studied in social studies was the strange number of planes that had gone down in the Atlantic Ocean.

I started feeling annoyed and cranky most of the time, my grades slipped from Ds to Fs, and I got into more fights with Nick and his buddies. I was sent out into the hallway almost every single class.

So finally, when out English teacher, Mr. Nicoll, asked me for the trillionth time why I was too lazy to study for the spelling tests, and I'm sorry but I don't study, I snapped and called him an old sot. I wasn't sure what it meant, but it sounded like a good insult.

The following week, the Headmaster sent my mom a letter the following week: I would not be invited back to Yancy the next year.

Fine! Just fine! I've been kicked out of plenty schools!

I was homesick.

I wanted to be with my mom in our apartment, even if I had to put with my obnoxious and smelly stepfather and his idiotic poker parties.

As exam week got closer, the only test I actually studied for was Latin. I hadn't forgotten what Mr. Brunner said about this being a life-and-death situation for me. Call me crazy, but I started to believe him for some reason.

The evening before the final exams, I got so aggravated that I chucked my _Cambridge Guide to Greek Mythology _across my dorm room. The words were swimming of the pages, doing 360s and 180s as if they riding skateboards. Was I going to remember the difference between Charon and Chiron, or Polydictes and Polydeuces, and conjugating those Latin verbs? No way! Forget it!

I paced back and forth around the room, feeling like ants were crawling inside my shirt.

After a few moments, I picked up my mythology book and walked out of my dorm. I have never in my life asked a teacher for guidance before. Maybe if I asked Mr. Brunner, he could give me some helpful pointers. And, at the very least, I could apologize in advance for the big, fat F I was going to score on his test. I didn't want him to think I left Yancy thinking I hadn't tried.

I opened the door of my dorm and walked down the stairs to the faculty offices. Most of them were dark, the door closed, and empty, no sign of live, but Mr. Brunner's had on a light and the door was slightly open. When I was about to open touch the door handle when I heard a voice, a familiar voice: "—worried about Pelagia, sir."

I'm not an eavesdropper, just to clear things up, but honestly, how can you not listen when someone is talking about _you _to an _adult_? And a teacher, too. So it's really not my fault that I pressed my ear gently on the door, so I wouldn't open it.

"—be alone this summer, sir," Grover was saying. "And a Kindly One in the school! Now that we know, and _they_ know too—"

"Matters would only be made worse by rushing her," Mr. Brunner interrupted. "She has to mature more."

"But she might not have time! The Summer Solstice is the deadline!"

"We have to fix that problem without her, Grover. Let her enjoy her ignorance while she still can."

"Sir, she saw her. She knows she saw her!"

"The Mist over the students and staff will cover that. It's her imagination," Mr. Brunner insisted.

"But, sir…I…I can't fail again," Grover's voice was choked with emotion. "I just can't, sir."

"You haven't failed," Mr. Brunner replied gently, "I should've seen her for what she was. Now let's just worry about keeping Pelagia alive until next fall."

My _Cambridge Guide to Greek Mythology _text book slipped out from my hand and landed on the ground with a thud. Inside the office, Mr. Brunner went dead silent.

I could make out a shadow across the lit up office door; something much bigger than my wheelchair teacher, holding something that looked, but absolutely couldn't be, like an archer's bow.

My heart beating thunderously loud, I picked up my book. I then opened the nearest office door, and slipped inside, putting my back against the door.

After a few seconds, I heard a _clop-clop-clop_, like the sound of muffle wood blocks, and a large, dark shape paused in front of the glass door. After a few moments, it moved on.

I let out a small sigh and sweat trickled down my neck. That was close.

Somewhere in the hallway Mr. Brunner spoke, "Nothing. My nerves haven't been right since the Winter Solstice."

"Mine either," Grover agreed. "But I could've sworn that something made a noise."

"Go back to your dorm, Grover," Mr. Brunner replied. "You have a long day of exams in front of you."

Grover groaned, "Don't remind me."

The lights in Mr. Brunner's room turned off; leaving the room I was in completely dark. I waited, and waited, and waited. After what seemed like forever, I finally slipped back out the door and made my way, quickly and quietly, up to my dorm.

There was Grover, lounging on his bed like he had been studying his Latin exam notes all night. As if!

"Hey," he said groggily, "You getting ready for the test?"

I didn't answer.

"You look awful," he continued. "You alright?"

"Just…tired," I finally said, turning so he couldn't read my expression. I did not understand a lot of what had happened downstairs, but one thing was certain: Grover and Mr. Brunner were talking about me behind my back, and they thought I was in extreme danger. Oh joy.

The next afternoon, as I was leaving the torturous three-hour Latin exam, my eyes swimming through the Greek and Roman names I had spelled incorrectly, Mr. Brunner called me back inside. Did he hear about me eavesdropping on him and Grover last night?

"Pelagia," he said. "Don't be melancholy about leaving Yancy. It's…it's for the best." Even though he was speaking kindly, I was still embarrassed. The other kids who had finished the exams could probably hear. Nick Bobofit was also snickering and sneering at me with his friends.

"Okay, sir," I mumbled in reply.

"I mean…" Mr. Brunner wheeled his chair back and forth as if he had no idea what to say. "I mean it was only a matter of time, this isn't the right place for you."

My eyes stung; here was my favorite teacher, in front of the whole class, telling me that I was destined to be kicked out from the start. After he told me he believed in me.

"Right," I mumbled, looking to the ground.

"No, no," Mr. Brunner said. "Oh, confound it all! What I'm trying to say is that you're not normal, Pelagia. That's nothing to be—"

"Thanks," I blurted out. "Thanks for reminding me, really."

"Pelagia—"

I was already gone.

One the last day of term, I shoved all my clothes into my suitcase. There were girls and guys all around, talking about what they were doing for vacation. They were juvenile delinquents like me, but they were _rich _juvenile delinquents. Their daddies were doctors, or ambassadors, or singers. Their moms were lawyers, or actresses, or models. I was a nobody, from a family of nobodies. They asked me what I was doing and I told them I was going back to the city. The things I didn't tell them was I would have to get a summer job and spend my free time worrying where I would go to school in the fall.

"Great," one of the girls replied halfheartedly.

And they went back to their conversation, like I had never existed.

The only person I actually dreaded saying goodbye to was Grover, but, as it turned out, I didn't have to. He bought a ticket to Manhattan on the same Greyhound as me.

During the whole bus ride, Grover was glancing at everything. The aisle where passengers walked to get off and on the bus, they windows, and even the seat in front of us and back of us. It had occurred to me that he was acting nervous and jumpy since leaving Yancy Academy, but I assumed it was because of being teased and ridiculed. Here, though, there was no one to mock him on the bus.

I'm sorry, but I couldn't stand it any longer.

"Looking for Kindly Ones?" I asked.

Grover jumped up in alarm, "Wha—what do you mean? I don't know what you mean?"

"Okay, so I might, or might not, have heard you talking to Mr. Brunner the night before the Latin exam," I replied.

His right eye twitched, "How much did you here?"

"Oh…you know…not much…So, anyway, what's the Summer Solstice deadline?"

"Look, Pelagia…I was…er…just worried for you…" he replied. "I mean hallucinating about demon math teachers…and….er…stuff…that's not good."

"Grover, no offense, but you're a horrible liar," I interrupted.

While Grover's ears turned red, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. It looked like some business card or whatnot, "Just take this, alright? In case you need me."

I stared at the card; it was in script, which was killer on my dyslexic eyes, but after awhile, I finally made out something like:

_Grover Underwood_

_Keeper_

_Half-Blood Hill_

_Long Island, New York_

_(800) 009-0009_

"What the heck is—" I started but Grover cut me off.

"Don't say it out loud!" he yelped. "That's my…uh…summer address. Yeah, my summer home."

Grover had a summer home? I had never thought that Grover might be as rich as the other kids at Yancy.

"Okay," I replied glumly. "Like if I want to come visit your house."

Grover nodded, "Or…or if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" I blurted out. Whoa, that sounded at lot meaner then intended.

Grover blushed right down to his Adam's apple.

"Sorry," I said guiltily. "That came out wrong, it's—"

"No, it's alright," Grover replied. "The truth is, Pelagia, I sort of have to protect you."

I stared at him. All year long, I had gotten into fights protecting him from bullies. Lately, I had lost sleep worrying what would happen to him without me. Now here he was acting like he had defended me. Was that even what he meant? Or was it something else?

"What exactly are you protecting me from?" I voiced, anticipating the answer.

I saw Grover gulp, he probably would try to steer the conversation away from this subject. Fortunately for Grover, and unfortunately for me, there was a huge grinding noise under our feet. Black smoke poured out from the dashboard and the whole bus filled with the stench of rotten eggs. The driver cursed loudly and steered the Greyhound toward the curb.

The driver went into the engine compartment. After a few moments he came out and spoke, "Everyone off the bus, we are having some difficulties."

Grover and I walked off the bus with the rest of passengers, some grumbling about stupid transportation vehicles.

We were on a stretch of country road, no type of place you would pay a lot of attention to. That is, unless your bus broke down there. There was nothing on our side of the road, but on the other side there was this old fruit stand. The food there looked delicious; blood red cherries and apples, walnuts, apricots, peaches, plums, jugs of cider in a bucket of ice. Although the food looked delicious, there were no customers, just three old ladies sitting in rocking chairs knitting socks.

Those socks were huge, the biggest pair of socks I've ever seen! And I'm not talking about a size 15 for some NBA player or whatever, I'm talking about socks the size of sweaters! They were clearly socks, though. The lady on the rights knitted on sock, while the lady on the left knitted another. The lady in the middle held a massive basket filled with electric-blue yarn.

No offense to these women, but they all looked ancient; pale wrinkled faces like fruit leather, silver hair tied back in bandannas, and bony arms sticking out of bleach cotton dress. The weirdest thing? They seemed to be staring right at me.

I looked to Grover and saw he wasn't looking alright, the color had drained from his face and his nose kept twitching.

"Pelagia, tell me they're not looking at you. Please tell me they're not looking at you," he begged.

"I know. Weird, right?" I replied, looking at the panicking boy in front of me. "You think those socks would fit me?"

"Not funny, Pelagia. Not funny at all."

The lady in the middle then took out a pair of scissor, which were huge, too, like shears for hedges. They were gold and silver.

Grover gasped, "We're getting on the bus."

"What no. Are you insane? It's a million degrees in there."

He pried open the doors, "Come on." He climbed the steps at disappeared inside the bus.

I wasn't going in just yet, though. I stayed back to watch the lady cut the string. And I know it sounds crazy, but I swear I could hear the _snip _from across the four lanes of busy traffic. Her two friends then balled up their electric-blue socks, leaving me baffled as to who they could be for—Sasquatch or Godzilla.

At the rear of the bus, the driver pulled out a large piece of black smoking metal from the engine compartment. The engine roared to life.

The passenger cheered.

The driver slapped his hat on the bus, "That's right! Everybody back on the bus!"

I climbed aboard and sat next to Grover. After a few minutes, we were back on the highway. I started feeling weird, though. As if I had suddenly got the flu. Grover certainly didn't look much better; he was shivering, teeth chattering, and twiddling his thumbs.

"Grover?"

"Yeah?"

"What aren't you telling me?"

He wiped the sweat on his forehead off with his sleeve, "Pelagia, what did you see back at that fruit stand?"

"You mean the old ladies? What is it about them?" Realization then hit me. "Are they like Mrs. Dodds?"

His expression was hard to read. You don't think that they're worse than Mrs. Dodds?

"Just tell me what you saw?" he asked suddenly.

"The two ladies on the end were knitting. Then, the middle lady took out of her scissors and cut the yarn," I replied.

Grover closed his eyes and made a gesture with three fingers as if he was crossing himself, but it wasn't. I know it wasn't. It was something, something older. "You saw her snip the cord?"

"Yeah."

"This is not happening," Grover had long stopped twiddling his thumbs and began chewing at it. "This is some bad dream, this isn't happening. This can't be like the last time; I don't want it to be like the last time."

"What do you mean? Last time?"

"Always 6th Grade! Why can they never get passed 6th Grade?"

"Grover?" The kid was starting to scare me. "What are you talking about?"

"Please, can I walk you home from the bus stop, Pelagia? Promise me?"

That's an unusual request, but I replied, "Okay."

"Is this like superstition?" I asked.

I didn't get an answer.

"Grover…that snipping of the yarn, does it mean…does it mean someone is going to die?"

Grover looked at me somberly, as if he was already debating on which flowers I would like best on my coffin.

**Sorry about the lack of updating, I was busy this week. The chapters will be up more quickly, I hope.**


	3. Grover's Pants is Gone

**_Grover's Pants is Gone_**

_**Disclaimer: I don't own PJO or anything that has to do with this. Rick Riordan owns PJO.**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own PJO or anything that has to do with this. Rick Riordan owns PJO**_

**I did two disclaimers because I forgot to do one on the previous chapter. Thank you to everyone who reads this.**

Confession time: I ditched Grover as soon as we got to the bus terminal. I know, it was rude, and I'm sorry, but Grover kept freaking me out muttering, "Why is it always 6th Grade?" and "I hope it isn't like the last time."

Whenever Grover got upset, is bladder started acting up. So while Grover made a beeline for the restroom, I took my suit case, went outside, and hailed a cab.

"East One-hundred-and-forth and First," I told the cab driver.

So, I word about my mom, before you meet her. Her name is Sally Jackson, and she is one of the best people in the world, and that just proves my theory of the best people have the worst luck. Her parents died in a plane crash when she was five, which led to her being raised by an uncle who didn't care much about her. She wanted to be a novelist, so she spent high school working to save enough money for a collage with a good writing program. Then, though, her uncle got cancer, and she had to quit school, in her senior year, to take care of him. When he died, she was left with no family, no money, and no diploma.

The really only good break she had got was meeting my dad.

I don't have any memories of him. The closest thing I have would probably be a barest trace of a smile, a warm glow. And my mom doesn't like to talk about it because it makes her sad. See, my mom and dad weren't married. She had told me he was rich and important and their relationship had been a secret. Then, one day, he had sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, and never came back.

No dead, my mom had told me. Not dead, just lost at sea.

She worked weird jobs, took night classes to get her high school diploma, and managed me on her own. She never complained or got mad, not even once. It was surprising because I know I'm wasn't an easy kid.

Eventually, she married Gabe Ugliano, who was nice like the first thirty seconds we knew him. No, maybe not the first thirty seconds, like twenty. No! Ten, yeah ten. After those ten seconds, he showed his true colors as a topnotch jerk. When I was a little girl, I nicknamed him Smelly Gabe. I'm sorry, no I'm not, but the guy reeked like moldy pizza wrapped in sweaty gym socks.

Between Gabe and I, we made my mom's life pretty hard. The way Smelly Gabe treated her, and the way we got along…Well, when I got home from Yancy is a great example.

I walked into my apartment, hoping my mom would be home from work. _Lucky for me, _Smelly Gabe was there, playing poker with his buddies. There were beer cans and chips all over the carpet, and the television blasted ESPN. The place was a mess, and gross.

Not looking up, he said around his cigar, "You're home."

"Where's my mom?"

"Working, got any cash?"

There it was: the _Got any cash? _No _Welcome back. Good to see you. How has your life been the past six months?_ Every time I got home, he would ask me for money. He called it 'Our Bond,' meaning if I told my mom, he would punch the lights out of me.

Gabe had put on a lot of weight. He reminded me of a tusk less walrus who went thrift-shopping. He was bald except for three hairs on his head that were combed to the side, as if that made him handsome or whatnot.

His job was that he managed the Electronic Mega-Mart in Queens, but he barely went to work. Don't ask me why he hadn't been fired long ago; I'm still trying to figure it out. All he did was collect paychecks, spend the money on beer and cigars, which made me nauseous.

"I don't have any cash," I replied.

He raised a greasy eyebrow questioningly. He could sniff out cash like a bloodhound; the weird thing is that his stench should've covered everything else up.

"You took a taxi from the bus station," he growled. "Paid with a twenty, got six, seven bucks in change. If somebody expects to live under this roof, she ought to pay her own weight. Am I right, Eddie?"

Pay their weight? I don't think Gabe has that much money.

Eddie, the superintendent of the apartment building, looked at me with a twinge of pity, "Come on, Gabe. She just got home."

"Am I _right?_" Gabe growled.

Eddie glared into the bowl of pretzels while Gabe's other two poker cronies passed gas in harmony. Gross.

"Whatever," I dug into my pocket, pulled out the change from the cab, and threw it onto the table. "Have fun losing!" I stomped away.

"Your report card came, garbage girl," he yelled after me. "Wouldn't act so disrespectful."

I slammed the door to my room. Well, actually it wasn't really my room, during the school months it became Gabe's 'study.' He didn't study anything except ancient car magazines, but he loved shoving all my stuff into the closet and making the room smell as horrific as his cologne, stale beer, and cigars. Jerk.

I threw my bag to the corner and flopped down onto the bed. Home sweet home.

Gabe's stink was almost as bad as the nightmares about Mrs. Dodds, or the sound of those huge shears the lady used to snip the yarn. As soon as I thought about that, I remembered Grover's look of panic, making me promise to let him walk me home. I felt a bit guilty, I hope he isn't freaking out and knows I got home alright. Suddenly, I felt a chill, as if someone—something—was looking for me. With claws and teeth and ruby red eyes.

"Pelagia?" A voice then said. I sat up, it was my mom's. She opened the door. Her hair was brown with a few streaks of grey but I never think of her as old. Her eyes changed color in the light.

"Oh, Pelagia, you've grown since Christmas!" She gave me a tight hug. Her red-white-and-blue Sweet on America shirt smelled like delicious candies and sweets. She had brought me a huge bag of 'free samples' like she always did when I got home. We sat on my bed; I was devouring a strip of blueberry sour strings while my mom played with my hair.

"Tell me about everything you couldn't put in your letters," she said.

She didn't mention anything about me getting expelled. Did her daughter have a great time? Was I alright?

I said to her that she was babying me and to calm down, but really, I was glad to see her.

"Sally, how 'bout some bean dip?" Gabe yelled from the living room.

I gritted my teeth, my mom should've been married to some sweet, nice guy, not some jerk like Gabe.

For my mom's sake, I tried to sound happy about my last days at Yancy. I told her I wasn't too upset about the expulsion, I almost made it the whole year, I made a new friend, and the fights weren't as bad as the headmaster said. I actually liked Yancy. I put such a good spin on it I actually convinced myself. I felt pretty sad, thinking about Grover and Mr. Brunner. Even Nick Bobofit didn't seem as bad.

Until the trip to the Met…

"What happened? Is something wrong?" my mom asked, her eyes trying to pull out the secrets.

"Nope," I felt a bit bad lying to her. I wanted to tell her about Mrs. Dodds and the fruit stand knitting ladies, but it would probably sound stupid and insignificant.

She pursed her lips, but she didn't question me.

"I have a surprise for you," she said. "We're going to Montauk!"

"Really?"

"Yep, three nights—same cabin."

"When?"

"As soon as I get changed."

Yes! My mom and I haven't been to Montauk for two summers, because Gabe said there wasn't enough money.

Gabe then appeared in the doorway, "Didn't you hear me, Sally? Bean dip."

I wanted to slap him, but I caught my mother's eyes and she proposed a deal: be nice to Gabe until we leave, then we would be ready for to get out of here.

"I was on my way, honey," my mom said to Gabe, "Just talking with Pelagia about the trip."

Gabe's eyes narrowed, "The trip to Montauk? You were serious?"

"Of course," I said. "He won't let us go!"

"Of course, your step-father is just worried about the money," my mom replied. "Besides, Gabriel won't have to settle for bean dip, I'll make him a seven-layer dip, enough for the whole weekend."

Gabe's eyes softened, "The money for the trip….It comes out of your clothes budget, right?"

"Yes, honey," my mom said.

"My car won't be taken anywhere except there and back."

"We'll be very careful."

"Well, maybe if you hurry with that bean dip. And the girl apologizes for interrupting my poker game."

Maybe I could kick you hard in the soft spot, and make you sing soprano for a week.

My mom's eyes, however, warned me not to enrage him.

Why did she put up with this jerk? Why did she care what he thought?

"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I'm sorry for interrupting your incredibly, awfully, important amazing poker game. Please go back to that awesome poker game right now."

The pig narrowed his eyes, his miniscule brain probably trying to detect sarcasm in my reply.

"Yeah, whatever," Gabe decided. He left and probably went back to his game.

"Thank you, Pelagia," my mom told me. "When we get to Montauk, we can talk more…about everything you forget or didn't get to."

For a moment, my mom looked like she had the same anxiety as Grover, the same chill in the air. But then her smile returned. It probably was my imagination. Then she left to go make Gabe his seven-layer dip.

An hour later, my mom and I were ready to leave.

Gabe took a break from his poker game long enough to watch me to heave my mom's bags to the car. He kept complaining about losing her cooking and more important, his '78 Camaro for three whole days. That poor, poor man. (Note the sarcasm)

"Don't let one scratch get on that car, garbage girl," he told me as I loaded the last bag into the car. "Not on scratch."

Like I'd be the one driving, I'm not even twelve yet. That didn't matter to Gabe, though. If a seagull so much as pooped on his paint job, he would find some idiotic, ridiculous way to blame me.

Watching him walk back toward the apartment building got me so mad that I did something I can't even explain. As Gabe reached the door to the apartment building, I put the three finger claw gesture Grover made on the bus and made a shoving motion towards the pig. The screen door slammed shut so hard that when it hit him he went flying up the staircase. Maybe it was the wind, or a freak accident, I didn't stay long enough to find out.

I got in the car and told my mom to hit the gas hard.

Our rental cabin was on the south shore, way out at the tip of Long Island. It had faded curtains and half sunken in the dunes. Sand was always in the sheets and spiders in the cabinets, and the sea was, most of the time, too cold to swim in.

I loved the place!

We've been going there since I was a baby and my mom had been going before I was even born. This place was special to her, she never said exactly why, but I knew. It was the place where she met my dad.

As we got closer to Montauk, my mom's eyes turned the color of the sea and she seemed to grow younger, years of worry and work evaporating off her face.

By the time we arrived at the cabin, it was sunset. We opened all the windows and went through our usual cleaning routine. We walked on the beach, fed blue corn chips to the seagulls, munched on blue jelly beans, gnawed blue saltwater taffy, and all lot of other free samples from my mom's work.

Okay, so I should probably explain all the blue food.

So, you see, one day Gabe had once told my mom there was no such thing as blue food. And they had gotten into a fight, which seemed like a really small thing at the time. But ever since, my mom went out of her way to eat blue. She baked blue birthday cakes, mixed blueberry smoothies, bought blue-corn tortilla chips, and brought home blue candies from the shop. This—along with keeping her maiden name, Jackson, rather than being called 'Mrs. Ugliano'—was proof that she wasn't totally suckered by Gabe. She did have somewhat of a rebellious streak, like me.

When it got dark, we made a fire, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows on sticks, eating s'mores. My mom told me some stories that she could remember from before her parents died and some funny ones while she was in school when she was younger. She also told me about all the books she wanted to write, how when she got enough money she would quit the candy store.

After a while, I got up the nerve to ask her about the thing that was always on my mind when we go to Montauk: my dad. My mom's eyes went all misty and I figured she would tell me what she always told, but I never got tired of hearing it.

"He was sweet, Pelagia," she said, "Tall, handsome, and powerful, but sweet and gentle, too. You have his black hair, and his green eyes."

She popped a blue jellybean in her mouth, "I wish he could see you, Pelagia. He would be so proud!"

Proud? As if! What's so great about me? I'm a hyperactive, dyslexic girl who never made in above a C- in her life. Been kicked out of every school I have ever been to.

"How old was I when he left?" I asked her.

She stared at the flames, "We were only together for a summer, Pelagia. We stayed here, at this beach. In this cabin."

"No…but he knew me as a baby, right?"

"Sorry, honey, but no. He knew I was expecting a baby, a little girl, but he never knew or saw you. He had to go to sea before you were born."

No, I had this smile, and I know it's from him. Some type of warm glow.

Okay, I always presumed my dad knew me as a baby. My mother never said anything about that. But now, being told that he never knew or even saw me, it was…it was….

I felt angry at my dad. So it might be stupid, but I resented him for going on that long voyage, leaving us alone, not marrying my mom. Now we're stuck with Smelly Gabe.

"What are we going to do now?" I asked her. "Send me off to another boarding school?"

She ate a s'more, and said in a heavily sad voice, "I don't know, Pelagia. I think…I think we'll have to do something."

"Because you don't want me around?" Oh no, I didn't mean that.

My mom's eyes got tears, she pulled me in a tight embrace, "No, Pelagia. I…I have to send you away. It's for your own good, honey."

Her words reminded me of Mr. Brunner's. _Don't be melancholy about leaving Yancy. It's…it's for the best._

"Because I'm not normal?" I asked, looking down.

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Pelagia. You don't understand how important you are, sweetie. I thought Yancy would be far enough, far enough away to keep you safe."

"Safe? Safe from…from what?"

She met my eyes, and all the scary things that have ever happened to me came flooding back, a lot of which I tried to forget.

In third grade, a huge man in a black trench coat kept stalking me on the playground. When the teachers threatened to call the police, he went away growling. The weirdest thing, though, was that he had one eye, one eye in the middle of his head.

Before that, a really early memory, I was in preschool and the teacher accidentally put me down in a cot a snake had slipped into. My mom had let out a shrill scream when she came to pick me up and saw me playing with a brownish green, scaly rope I had somehow managed to strangle with my toddler hands.

Every school I have ever been to, something creepy had happened. Something dangerous and I was forced to move to a different school.

I should tell my mom about Mrs. Dodds and the old fruit ladies, but I couldn't. The weird hallucination I had sliced my demon math teacher with a bronze sword, but it would end our trip to Montauk, I just know it, and I didn't want that.

"I'm sorry; I've tried to keep you as close to me as you could, they told me it was a mistake. But there's only one other option, Pelagia: the place your father wanted you to go to. And I just…I just can't do that."

"My dad wanted me to go to a special school?"

"Not a school, sweetie. A summer camp."

Why would my dad who didn't even stay long enough to see me be born talk to my mom about a summer camp? If it was so important, why hadn't she mentioned it before?

"I'm sorry, Pelagia," my mom said, interrupting my thoughts. "I…I can't do that, it might mean sending you away for good."

"For good? It's only a summer camp."

Her gaze turned back towards the flames, her eyes threatening to cry if I keep questioning her.

That night I had a vivid dream. There was a storm on the beach and two beautiful animals were fighting, a horse and an eagle. They were trying to kill each other. The eagle flew down and swiped the horse on it's muzzle. The horse reared up and kicked the eagle's wings. As they fought, the ground rumbled and a voice could be heard. The horrendous voice cackled and goaded the animals to fight harder.

I ran toward them. They couldn't kill each other, they just couldn't. I was running in slow motion, though. I wouldn't make it in time. The eagle dived down, it's pointed beak aimed at the horse's right wide eye.

"NO!"

I woke with a start.

Outside, there really was a storm, the kind of storm that cracks trees and blows down houses. There was no eagle or horse, though. Only lightning that pounded the ground and 20 foot waves that slammed against the dunes.

The next thunderclap sounded and my mother woke, her eyes wide, and she sat up, "Hurricane."

Long Island never see's hurricanes this early in the summer, but the ocean seemed to have forgotten. The wind was roaring loudly, but in the distance I heard this tortured, angry sound that made me get goose bumps.

I then heard a much closer sound, like mallets in sand. And a voice, a desperate voice, yelling and pounding on the door of the cabin.

My mother, in her nightgown, sprang out of bed, unlocked the door and opened it.

Grover stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, soaked in rain. But he wasn't…he wasn't exactly Grover.

"I was searching all night," he gasped. "What were you thinking?"

My mom stared at me in terror, apparently not afraid of Grover, but why he had come, "Pelagia, what happened at school? What didn't you tell me?"

I was frozen, however. What the heck was wrong with Grover?

"O Zeu kai alloi theoi!" he yelled. "It's right behind me! Didn't you tell her?"

I didn't even register that he had cursed in Ancient Greek and I understood him perfectly, how Grover had gotten here in the middle of the night. Because where Grover's legs should be…his legs….

My mom looked at me sternly, and in a tone she never used before, "Pelagia, tell me now!"

I stammered something about Mrs. Dodds and the knitting ladies at the fruit stand. When I had finished, my mom stared at me, her face deathly pale.

She grabbed her purse, tossed me my rain jacket, and said, "Get to the car! Both of you!"

Grover ran to the Camaro, but he wasn't exactly running. He was trotting, shaking his shaggy hindquarters…. That's why. That's why he limps when he walks but could be so fast when he wanted to.

Because where his feet should be, there were no feet. There were only cloven hooves.

**Hope you guys enjoyed! Just to let you know, the next chapter won't be as quick as this one. Thanks again for reading!**

**-Fae51**


	4. My Mom Knows Bullfighting

**_My Mom Knows Bullfighting_**

_**Disclaimer: I don't own PJO, Rick Riordan does. I don't own anything.**_

My mom, Grover, and I drove along the dark, long roads for what seemed like hours. The wind pounded against the Camaro and rain smashed against the wind-shield. I had no idea how my mom could see anything, but her foot didn't even come off the gas pedal the slightest.

Every time lightning flashed, I glanced at Grover sitting next to me, wondering if I had gone psycho or maybe he was wearing some kind of shag carpet pants. But no, the car smelled like wet barnyard, no I don't smell barnyards, but I remembered it from the petting zoo field trips from when I was in kindergarten.

In the awkward silence, all I could think to say was, "So, Grover, you and my mom know each other?"

Grover's gaze went to the rear-view mirror, even though there were no cars behind us, "Not really. Well, you see, we never met in person, but she knew I was looking after you, keeping tabs on you."

"Keeping tabs?"

"Watching you, making sure you were alright. I wasn't faking being your friend, though, I am your friend."

"Okay…uh…what are you? No offense."

"Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter? From the waist down, my best friend is donkey!"

Grover let out a throaty, sharp "Blaa-ha-ha."

I have heard him make the noise before, but I always had assumed it was some kind of nervous laugh. Now, though, I realized it was more of an irritated bleat.

"GOAT!" Grover cried.

"What?"

"From the waist down I'm a goat, not a donkey!"

"Wait, you just said it didn't matter."

"Blaa-ha-ha! There are satyrs who would trample you for such an insult."

"Whoa, time out. You said satyrs, like…like Mr. Brunner's myths?"

"Were the ladies at the fruit stand a myth? Was Mrs. Dodds a myth?"

"Ah-ha!" I pointed a finger at Grover, "So, you admit there was a Mrs. Dodds!"

"Of course."

"Then why—"

"The less you knew, the fewer monsters you would attract," Grover said like the answer perfectly obvious. "We put the Mist over the mortal's eyes and hoped you'd think the Kindly One was a hallucination. But it was useless; you started to realize who you are."

"Who I—what? Can you explain?"

The weird, angry, shouting noise sounded again, somewhere behind us, closer than before. Whatever was chasing us was hot on our tail.

"Pelagia," my mom said, "I'm sorry but there is too much to explain and not enough time. Our first priority is to get you to safety."

"Safety! From what? Who is after me?"

"Oh, you know, nobody much," Grover replied, obviously still annoyed about the donkey comment. "Only the Lord of the Dead and a few of his blood-thirstiest minions."

"Grover!"

"Sorry, Ms. Jackson, Can you drive faster, please?"

This was insane! Some kind of dream or something along the same lines as that! The only problem was that I could never dream up something as crazy as this, I had no imagination!

My mom swerved left hard, slamming me into Grover, who slammed into the side of the car. We raced on a narrow road, turning the darkened farmhouses and wooden hills into blurs. I could barely make out the PICK YOUR OWN STRAWBERRIES signs on the white fences.

"Where we going, mom?" I asked my mother.

"To the summer camp," my mom answered, voice tight, like she was trying not to cry. "The place your dad wanted you to go."

"The place you didn't want me to go."

"Pelagia, please, this is hard enough, please try to understand. You're in danger."

"Because some old ladies cut a piece of yarn?"

"Those weren't just old ladies," Grover replied. "They were Fates. Do you know what this means? That they appeared in front of you? They only do that when you're…when someone's about to die."

"Wait…you said 'you.'"

"No, I said 'someone,' not 'you.'"

"Well, you meant 'you.' Like the 'you' as in me."

"No, I meant 'you' as in someone, not 'you' as in you. That's ridiculous."

"Kids!" my mom yelled.

She jerked a hard left; for the first time, I caught a glimpse of the thing that she was trying to avoid—a dark shape that was now lost behind us in the storm.

"What the heck was that?" I asked, looking at my mother.

"Come on," my mom muttered, ignoring me. "Please, please, please, we're almost there."

I had no idea where there was, but I found myself anticipating for the car to stop.

When I looked out the window, I saw nothing but darkness. Rain pounded on the roof of the car. I thought about Mrs. Dodds, and her claws, fangs, and leathery wings. I froze up; she really hadn't been human, she had meant to kill me!

And Mr. Brunner, with the sword he had thrown me. Before I could ask Grover about that, I got goose bumps, there was a blinding flash of light, a jaw-rattling BOOM!, and our car exploded.

I pushed the driver's seat, trying to sit up, "Ow!"

"Pelagia! Are you alright?" my mom asked worried.

"Yeah, fine."

I shook my head, trying to shake the wooziness. I wasn't dead, that was good. The car also didn't really explode; we were blasted of the road into a ditch. My sides of the car's doors were wedged in mud, unable to move. There was hole in roof and rain was pouring inside the car.

Lightning!

Next to me was some kind of furry lump, "Grover!"

His body was slumped over; he had blood trickling from his mouth. I shook his shoulder, "NO! Even though you're half goat, you're my best friend and I don't want you to die!"

"Food!" he moaned in reply. He'll be alright, I hope.

"Pelagia," my mom said, "we have to…" her voice died out.

I turned my head, looking through the rear windshield. With another flash of lightning, I made out a silhouette of this huge man. He had like a blanket over his head, his hands were raised up like he had horns, and his torso up were all fuzzy and bulky. He was running towards us, and I got goose bumps again.

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, "Who is that?"

"Pelagia," my mom said, her voice was deadly serious. "Get out of the car!"

She rammed her shoulder against the car door.

"Mom, stop," I said. "It's stuck in the mud."

"Climb out the passenger's side then," she replied, she then pointed to something in the darkness. "Pelagia, you see that big tree?"

"What tree?"

Another flash of lightning struck, and I saw what she was pointing at, a huge pine tree, one that could have been the Christmas tree at Central Park. It was at the nearest hill.

"That's the property line," my mom said. "When you get over that hill, you'll see a farmhouse. Run to it, and don't stop until you reach the door. Yell for help."

"Mom, you're coming too!"

My mom's face was pale, her eyes were sad when she looked at the ocean.

"NO!" I yelled. "NO! You're coming with me! Help me carry Grover."

"Food!" Grover moaned louder.

The man with the blanket on his head ran towards us, making grunting, snorting noises. As he got closer, I realized there was no way his hands were raised to be horns because his big, meaty hands were swinging by his side. That was not blanket on his head, which meant the huge fuzzy thing on his neck was his head. Which meant his head was huge! And the things that looked like horns were actually horns!

"He doesn't want Grover and I," my mom said, "he wants you. And besides, I can't cross the property line."

"But…."

"We don't have time, Pelagia. Go, please!"

I got angry then—angry at my mom, at Grover the goat, and at the weird man…thing…whatever that was running towards us.

I climbed across to the passenger side and opened the car door, "We're going together, mom. Come on."

"No, I told you—"

"I'm not leaving you, mom! Help me with Grover."

I didn't even wait for her answer, I hulled Grover outside. He was lighter than expected, but I still wouldn't have gotten far without my mom's help.

We draped Grover's arms across our shoulders and ran up the hill's waist-high grass.

I looked back and got my first clear look at the beast; he was easily seven feet tall, his arms and legs looked like something from that weird Muscle Man magazine, (bulging biceps and triceps and whatever other 'ceps there are) he had on no clothes, except for underwear. No, I'm not joking. Seriously, bright white Fruit of the Looms underwear, which would've looked hilarious if not for the fact that the top half of his body was so frightening. He had brown hair that started from his belly button and got thicker up near his shoulders.

His neck was a mass of muscle and fur, leading up to his ginormous head, which had a snout as long as my arm. He had a huge, brass nose ring. I don't even know where he got that from. He had cruel, coal black eyes. His horns were huge and black and white, with perfect tips, the kind you just couldn't get from an electric sharper.

To put it in short, he was hideous.

I recognized him, though. Easy to do so. He was from one of the first myths Mr. Brunner ever told my class about.

I blinked the rain out of my eyes, "That's—"

My mom cut me off, "Pasiphae's son. I wish I had known how badly they wanted to kill you."

"But he's the Mino—"

"Don't say his name," my mom warned. "Names have power."

The pine tree was still too far away; about a hundred yards at least.

I glance behind me again; the bull-man was hunched over the Camaro, kind of looking in the windows. No, he wasn't doing that, he was nuzzling or sniffing them. Which was stupid, we were only like fifty feet away.

"Food!" Grover moaned again.

"Shush," I said. "Mom, why is the dude nuzzling windows? Is he stupid? Can't he see us?"

"His sight and hearing are horrendous," my mom answered. "His sense of smell is good, though. That's what he goes by. He'll find out where we are soon enough."

And as if on cue, the bull-man picked up the Camaro up by the sizzling hole in the roof, roared in rage, raised the Camaro over his head, and threw the car. It landed on the road, skidded for about a half a mile with sparks, and then the gas tank exploded.

_Not one scratch. _Gabe had said.

Oops.

"Pelagia," my mom said. "Once he sees us, he'll charge. Jump out of the way, but not until the last second. Jump directly sideways. He can't change direction once he's charging. Do you understand?"

"How do you know all of this?"

"I was expecting an attack for quite some time now. I was being selfish, keeping you near me."

"Keeping me near—"

The bull-man bellowed, and started up the hill.

He had smelled us.

The pine was only a few more yards, but the hill was getting slicker and steeper. Grover wasn't getting any lighter either.

The bull-man closed in, another few seconds and he'd be right on top of us.

My mom must have been fatigued, but she held up Grover, "Pelagia, go! Separate! Keep in mind what I said!"

Though I didn't want to split up, I knew it might be our only chance. I sprinted to the right, turned, and saw the monster following me; his black eyes shone with hate and he reeked liked rotten meat.

The bull-man lowered his head and charged like a bull, his horns pointed straight at my chest.

My fear made me want to take off running, but that was stupid. No way was I going to outrun this thing. I held my ground and then at the last moment, dove sideways.

The bull-man stormed past me, and then roared in aggravation. I scrambled to my feet, but this time he turned towards my mom, who was setting Grover down in the grass.

We reached the crest of the hill, and down the other side I could see a valley, like my mom had said. The lights of the farmhouse glowed yellow in the rain. It was half a mile away, though. We'd never make it.

The bull-man grunted, pawed at the ground and studied my mother, who was retreating slowly downhill, toward the road, leading the thing away from Grover.

"Pelagia, run!" she shouted. "Run! I can't go any farther! Go! Run!"

I stood there though, frozen as the monster charged at her. She tried to sidestep, like she told me, but the monster had learned its lesson. His hand shot out, grabbing her by the neck. She struggled, kicking and failing.

"Mom!"

She caught my gaze and managed to choke out one last word: "RUN!"

Then, with an angry shout, the monster closed his fist around my mom's neck. She dissolved before me, as if she were a holographic projection. A blinding flash and then she was…gone.

"Mom!" I yelled. I don't know who to, though, my mom was gone. "Mom! MOM!"

I felt a rush of anger in me, and some kind of energy, the same energy when Mrs. Dodds grew talons.

The bull-man approached Grover, who was lying vulnerably in the waist-high grass. He snuffed Grover like he was going to pick him up and make him dissolve to.

Now, I couldn't allow that.

I pulled off my rain jacket, waving it in the air, running towards one side of the monster, "Hey, stupid, down here!"

"RARRRRR!" he roared, turning towards me, shaking his meaty fists.

I had an idea; it was a stupid idea, but a stupid idea is better than no idea at all, right? I leaned my back against the pine tree and waved my jacket in front of the beast, I'll probably jump away at the last minute.

I was wrong.

The monster charge at me fast, too fast and he had his arms out to grab at me each way.

Time slowed down.

My legs tensed. I couldn't leap sideways, so I jumped up, using the monster's head as a springboard. I turned in mid-air and landed on it's neck.

Whoa! What the—? How'd I do that?

A millisecond later, though, the monster's forehead slammed into the tree, the impact nearly bashed my teeth out.

The beast staggered, trying to shake me, but it was no use, I locked my arms around his horns. The storm was still going strong, thunder roared, lightning flashed, and I was soaked from the rain. The smell of the monster burned my nose. Wow, he smells!

The monster shook himself, failing and bucking like a rodeo bull. The thing should have just backed up and smashed me against the tree. Wait…this thing only had one gear: forward.

Meanwhile, Grover was starting to make more noise in the grass, "FOOD!"

I wanted to yell at him to shut up, but if I opened my mouth, I'd bite my own tongue off.

The bull-man turned toward him and touched at the ground, getting ready to charge again. No way! No way was he going to kill Grover like he killed my mom. I put both of my hands around one of the bull-man's horns and pulled back with all my strength. The monsters gave a surprised grunt and then SNAP! I flew backward, smacking my head against a rock. My vision turned fuzzy, but I had a huge horn in my hands, the size of a knife.

The beast charged.

I sat up and waiting for the right moment. When the monster was about a foot in front of me, I stabbed the horn under his right ribcage.

The bull-man halted and then roared in misery, he clawed at his chest. Then he was blown apart; not in a golden flash, like my mom, but like sand being blown by wind, like Mrs. Dodds.

The monster was gone.

The rain stopped. The thunder still boomed, but in the distance now. I'm sure I smelt like a cattle, my legs trembled. I was feeble, scared, and shaking, my mom had just died. I wanted to lie down and cry, but Grover needed my help. I heaved Grover up; putting his arm around my shoulder. I almost collapsed under his weight, but I managed to stay up. I staggered down the valley, trying not to fall as I walked, to the farmhouse, like my mom said. I was crying, calling for my mom. I kept a firm grip on Grover, though.

The last thing I can remember is stumbling up the steps of the porch; I set Grover on a wooden chair and collapsed onto the ground. I stared at the ceiling fan above me, watched moths fly around a light, and saw faces. One was stern face of a familiar-looking man with a beard. The other was a cute boy with curly blond hair. They stared down at me.

"She's the one," the boy said. "She has to be."

"Quiet, Anthony," the man replied. "Bring her inside, she's still conscious."

**Hoped you liked it! Thanks for reading and remember, I own nothing. **

**Bye!**

**-Fae51**


	5. Gods and Horses Can Play Cards

_**Gods and Horses Can Play Cards  
**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own PJO, Rick Riordon does. I don't own anything.**_

I had the weirdest dream; it was full of barnyard animals, most of them wanted to kill me, the rest wanted some food.

I probably woken up several times, but what I saw and heard made no sense whatsoever so I just fell back asleep. What I remember is lying on a bed, being spoon-fed something that tasted like buttered popcorn, but it wasn't because it was pudding. The boy with curly blond hair hovered over me, looking bored as ever.

When he saw my eyes open, he said something, "What'll happen at the summer solstice?"

"What?" I managed to reply.

He scanned the space behind him, like what he was going to say was top secret, "What was stolen? What's going on? There's only a few weeks left!"

"Sorry," I muttered. "I don't know what…"

* * *

Next, somebody knocked on the door, and the boy shoved more pudding in my mouth.

The next time I awoke, the guy was gone.

A husky, blond dude, who reminded me of a surfer, stood in the corner of the bedroom, watching over me. He had blue eyes, and a lot of them. He had them on his cheeks, the back of his hands, his forehead.

* * *

When I finally awoke for good, there was nothing unusual about my surroundings, except for the fact that they were a lot nicer than I was used to. I was sitting on a deck chair, looking across the meadow at the green hills in the distance. The wind smelled like strawberries, there was a blanket on my legs, and a pillow behind my neck. I would've been comfortable, except for the fact my mouth felt like a scorpion's nest. My tongue was dry and every one of my teeth ached.

Next to me was a table; on the table was a tall drink, like some kind of frozen apple juice. It had a green straw and paper umbrella stuck through a cherry.

My hand was so weak that when I picked it up, I almost dropped it.

"Careful," a familiar voice said.

Grover was leaning against one of the porches railings, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. On the porch railing next to him, was a shoe box. Grover was wearing blue jeans, Converse high-tops, and a bright orange T-shirt that said CAMP HALF-BLOOD. He was just Grover, not the goat boy.

Okay, so it was a nightmare. My mom was alright, we were still on vacation, we stopped here for some reason, and…

"You save my life," Grover said, interrupting my thoughts. "Thanks. And the least I could do, well, was that…I…uh…went back to the hill and got this. I thought you might want it."

He picked up the shoe box on the railing and set it gingerly on my lap.

I opened the box; inside it was a black-and-white bull's horn, the bottom was sharp and jagged from being ripped off and the tip had on dried blood. No, it wasn't a nightmare.

"The Minotaur," I said.

"Uh…Pelagia, it isn't such a—"

"That's what they call him, right?" I asked, "The Minotaur; half man, half bull."

Grover shifted his weight nervously, "You were out for two days, how much do you remember?"

"My mom, is she really?"

He avoided my eyes, looking down.

I gazed across the meadow, there were orchards trees, a twisting stream, and acres of strawberries spread out under the blue sky. The valley was enclosed by rolling hills, and the tallest one had a humongous pine tree, even that looked stunning in the daylight.

My mom was gone. The world should look dark and cold, nothing should look beautiful.

"I'm sorry," Grover sniffed. "I'm a failure. I'm…I'm the worst satyr in the world, I know it."

He stomped his foot onto the ground so hard that his shoe came off. The inside of his shoe was filled with Styrofoam except for a hoof-shaped hole in the middle.

"Oh, Styx!" he yelled.

Thunder boomed in the background, which was weird because the sky was sunny and clear.

Grover struggled to get his hoof back in the hoof hole. Alright, that's it! Grover's a satyr. I'll bet anyone that if I shaved his curly brown hair, I would find tiny horns.

I didn't care, though; so what if satyrs, or even Minotaurs, existed? That just proved that my mom had turned into light.

I was alone, an orphan. I had nowhere to live. I wouldn't live with Smelly Gabe alone. I would live on the streets. I'd do something.

Grover was still sniffling, looking like he was expecting to be hit. Poor satyr.

"It wasn't your fault," I said.

"Yes. Yes, it was, I was supposed to protect you."

"Did my mom ask you to protect me?"

"No, but that's my job. Or it was. I was a Keeper."

"But why…" my vision suddenly got hazy. My head felt like I had just been spinning in circles.

"Don't hurt yourself," Grover said, "here." He closed the shoe box and set my drink on it. I drank it and was surprised by the taste, I was expecting apple juice. This, though, this didn't taste like that at all. It tasted like cookies, chocolate chip cookies, my mom's homemade, blue, chocolate chip cookies. It was buttery and soft, tasting like the chips were melting. My misery didn't go away, but I felt as if my mom had just gave me a cookie and a hug and told me everything was going alright like she did when I was little.

Before I even knew it, the glass was empty. I stared into it.

What the—?

I just had a warm drink, but the ice cubs in the glass were still frozen. Weird.

"Was it good?" Grover asked.

I nodded in response.

"What did it taste like?" He asked longingly, I felt a bit guiltily.

"Sorry, should've poured some in a cup," I replied.

His eyes got as wide as saucers, "No! No….that's not what I meant, just wondering."

"Chocolate chip cookies," I answered, "my mom's homemade chocolate chip cookies."

"How do you feel?"

"Like I could hit Nick Bobofit so hard he'll forget his name."

Grover grinned, "Good. Great actually, but I don't think we can risk any more of that stuff."

"What? Any more of that stuff?"

He took the glass from me carefully and set it back on the table, "Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting."

We walked along the porch, which wrapped all the way around the farmhouse.

My legs trembled as I tried to walk that far. Grover offered to hold the shoebox but I declined, I paid for that souvenir the hard way and wasn't going to let go of it.

When we reached the opposite side of the farmhouse from where we recently stood, I caught my breath. We had to be on the north shore of Long Island because on this side of the house, the valley went all the way to the water, which shimmered beautifully. Between here and the water, I tried to process everything that was there, but failed. The expanse was scattered with buildings that looked like ancient Greek architecture—an opened pavilion, an amphitheater, and a circular arena—except all the buildings looked brand new, the white columns sparkled in the sunlight. In a nearby sandpit, about a dozen of high school age kids and satyrs were playing volleyball. Canoes floated across a small lake. Kids in bright orange CAMP HALF-BLOOD shirts, like Grover's, were all around; some chasing each other by a gathering of cabins near the woods, some shooting targets at an archery range, other rode horses down a trail, and (unless I had gone crazy, which wouldn't surprise me because of everything I've seen) some even had wings.

Down at the end of the porch, sat two men opposite each other at a card table. The boy who had spoon-fed me pudding was sitting on the railing beside them.

The man facing me was small, but porky. He had red noise, big watery eyes, and curly black hair that was almost purple. He looked like one of those baby angels….hubbubs ? No, that's not it. Cherub! Yeah, he looked like a cherub that turned middle-age in a trailer park. He wore a tiger pattern Hawaiian T-shirt. He would've fit right in at one of Gabe's poker parties, but I think this dude could out gamble even my step-father.

"That's Mr. D," Grover mumbled, only audible for me to here. "He's the camp director, be polite. The boy, that's Anthony Chase. Just a camper, but he's been here longer than anybody. And you already know Chiron…"

He pointed to the man whose back was turned to me.

He was sitting in a wheelchair, had a tweed jacket, had thinning brown hair, and scraggly. He seemed familiar. Wait a minute….

"Mr. Brunner!" I yelled.

The Latin teacher turned and smiled at me, he had a mischievous gleam in his eyes, like when he pulled a pop quiz and made all of the multiple choice answers B.

"Good, Pelagia," he said. "Now we have four for Pinochle."

He gesture to the chair left of himself, I sat down.

Mr. D looked at me and heaved a great sigh, "Alright, I'll guess I'll say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There, I said it; now don't expect me to be joyful to see you."

"Ok…thanks," I said, scooting closer to Mr. Brunner. If there was one thing I learned from living with Gabe, one thing at all, it was how to tell if an adult had been hitting the happy juice. If Mr. D was a stranger to alcohol, I was a satyr.

"Anthony," Mr. Brunner called to the blond boy, who jumped off the railing once his name was called. Mr. Brunner introduced us, "This young lad helped nurse you back to health, Pelagia." He turned towards the blond, "Anthony, my boy, why don't you check on Pelagia's bunk? We'll be putting her in cabin eleven for now."

"Sure, Chiron," Anthony replied.

He was probably my age, about my height, but a whole lot more athletic looking. He had a deep tan, curly blond hair, and grey eyes. Intimidating and analyzing grey eyes.

He glanced at the shoebox in my hands and then at me like 'Why do you have a shoebox.' I thought he was going to ask that until he said, "You drool when you sleep."

He turned around and ran towards the cabin. How _nice_, that's exactly what you tell someone.

"Okay," I said, trying to change the subject. "Do you…um…work here, Mr. Brunner?"

"Not Mr. Brunner," the not-Mr. Brunner said, "That was just a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron."

"Alright," I said, extremely perplexed. "And…Mr. D, does that stand for something?"

Mr. D stopped shuffling the cards and looked at me as if I just said something completely rude. What? I just asked the guy his name. "Young lady, names are a powerful thing. You don't just go around using them for no apparent reason."

"Oh, right, sorry."

"I must say, Pelagia," Mr. Brun—Chiron said. "I'm quite happy to see you're alive. It's been a long time since I've made a house call to a potential camper and I hate to think I've wasted my time."

"Wait, what? House call?"

"When I went to Yancy Academy to instruct you. We have satyrs at most schools, obviously, keeping a look out. Grover alerted me, though, as soon as he met you. He sensed you were special, so I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to…uh…go on break."

Oh yeah! It seemed like so long ago, but I faintly remember another Latin teacher who disappeared for reasons unknown and Mr. Brunner took his place.

"You came to Yancy Academy just to teach me?" I asked.

Chiron nodded, "To be honest, I wasn't completely sure about you at first. We had contacted you mother, saying we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for camp. But you still had so much to learn. However, you made it here alive, and that's always the first test."

"Grover!" Mr. D snapped impatiently. "Are you playing or not?"

"Yes, sir!" Grover quaked as he took the fourth chair, though I wasn't sure why he should be so afraid of the middle-aged cherub in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.

"You do know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D asked me.

"No," I replied.

"No, sir," Mr. D said.

"Sir," I repeated, liking him less and less.

"Well," he told me, "it is, along with gladiator and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men and woman to know it."

"I'm sure the girl can learn," Chiron said.

"What is this place? Why am I here? Mr. Brunn—Chiron, why did you to Yancy just to teach me?"

Mr. D snorted, "I had asked the same question."

He dealt the cards and Grover visibly winced every time one landed in his pile.

Chiron smiled at me sympathetically, the way he had done if Latin class, as if to let me know no matter my grade average, I was his star student. He expected me to have the right answer. "Pelagia, did you mom tell you nothing?"

"She…" I felt a lump in my throat thinking about my mom, "she told me that she was afraid to send me here, even though my dad wanted her to. She said once I was here, I probably wouldn't be allowed to go. She wanted to keep me close."

"Typical," Mr. D said. "That's how they usual get killed. Girl, are you bidding or not."

"What?" I asked.

Mr. D explained, annoyed, what bidding in pinochle was, and so I did.

"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron said. "And our usual orientation film won't be sufficient."

"Orientation film? What?"

"No. Pelagia, you know your friend, Grover, here is a satyr. You know"—he pointed towards the shoebox—"that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either. What you may not know is that there are powerful forces at work in your life. Gods, the Greek gods, are very much alive."

I stared at the table waiting. Surely someone is going to yell, _"Not!"_ but all I got was Mr. D cackling and tallying up his points yelling, "Oh, a Royal Marriage. Trick! Trick!"

"Mr. D," Grover asked fearfully, "if you're not going to have it, my I have your Diet Coke can?"

"Eh? Oh, all right."

Grover bit a huge shard out of the aluminum can and chewed it somberly.

"Whoa," I said. "You're telling me there's a thing as God?"

"Well, now," Chiron replied. "God—as in capital 'G', God. That's a different matter altogether. We shall not deal with the metaphysical."

"Metaphysical? But you were just—"

"Ah, gods, as in plural, great beings that control the forces of nature and humans actions; the immortal gods of Olympus, that's a smaller matter."

"What? Smaller?"

"Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class."

"Oh, like Zeus, Hera, Apollo, Athena."

There it was again, thunder on a clear day.

"Young lady," Mr. D said. "I would really be less casual about tossing those names about, if I were you."

"But they're just myths!" I said. "Stories! Things to help people explain stuff before there was science!"

"Science!" Mr. D scoffed. "And tell me, Pelagia Jackson, what will people think of you so called science two thousand years into the future. They will call it primitive mumbo jumbo. Oh, I love mortals—they think they have come oh so far. And have they, Chiron? Look at this girl and tell me."

I didn't like Mr. D much, to tell you the truth, but there was something in the way he called me a mortal, as if he wasn't.

"Pelagia," Chiron said. "You may choose to believe it or not, but immortal means immortal. Never dying, fading. Existing as who you are right now for all eternity."

I was about to answer that it seemed like a pretty sweet deal, but the tone of his voice made me hesitate.

"Whether people believe in you or not," I said.

"Exactly," Chiron agreed. "If you were a good, how you like it to be called a myth? Something to explain lightning. What if I told you, Pelagia Jackson, that someday people will call you a myth, just to explain how little girls can't get over losing their mom?"

My heart pounded. He was trying to make me angry for some reason, but I wouldn't let him, "I wouldn't like it, but I do not believe in gods."

"Oh, you better believe," Mr. D growled, "before one of them turns you to a pile of ash."

"P-p-please, sir," Grover said, speaking for the first time. "She's in shock, she just lost her mom."

"Luck thing, too," Mr. D grumbled, putting down a card. "It's bad enough I have to work here with kids who don't even believe."

Mr. D waved his hand and a goblet appeared. Literally, appeared. Out of thin air. Poof. The goblet then filled itself with red wine. Whoa!

My jaw dropped, but Chiron didn't even look up from his cards.

"Mr. D," he warned, "your restraints."

Mr. D looked at the wine in feign surprise. He then looked to the clear sky. "Sorry! Old habits!"

Thunder sounded again.

Mr. D waved his hand and the goblet morphed into a Diet Coke can. He opened the lid, sighed miserably, and went back to the card game.

Chiron winked at me, "Mr. D got in trouble with his father a while back, took a liking to an off-limits wood nymph."

"Wood nymph," I repeated, gawking at the Diet Can.

"Yes," Mr. D confessed. "Father loves to punish me. The first time, Prohibition. Ghastly! Unquestionably horrid ten years! The second—well, she was very pretty—the second time, he sent me here, Camp Half-Blood. Summer camp for brats like yourself. 'Be a better influence,' he said. 'Work with youths instead of tearing them down.' Ha! Completely unfair if you asked me! Super unfair!"

He sounded like a pouting six year old.

"And…" I said. "Your father is?"

"Di immortals, Chiron," Mr. D said. "Didn't you say you taught this girl the basics? My father is Zeus, or course."

I ran through D names in Greek mythology. Wine, the skin of a tiger, satyrs all seemed to work here, the way Grover cringed, as though Mr. D was his master. No way…

"You're Dionysus," I said. "God of wine."

Mr. D rolled his eyes, "What do they say these days, Grover? Don't the children say, 'Well, duh!'?"

"Y-y-yes, Mr. D," Grover stammered.

"Then well, duh! Pelagia Jackson! Who'd you think I was? Aphrodite, perhaps?"

"Whoa, you're a god," I said, clutching the top of my head.

"Yes, child."

"You're a god! A god! You! You're a god!"

Mr. D turned to me, staring at me straight in the eyes. In his eyes was some kind of purplish fire, a hint that this whiny, tiny, plump man was showing me only a bit of his true nature. I saw images of grapes strangling non-believers until they were limp, drunken warriors insane with battle lust, the tortured shrieking of sailors as their hands turned into flippers, their faces lengthening into snouts. I knew if I pushed him, he'd show me worse. He'd plant some kind of virus in my head, driving me insane. I would be stuck in some rubber room in a straightjacket for the rest of my life, muttering under my breath, unable to get the images out of my head.

"Would you like to test me, child?" he asked quietly.

"No, sir," I replied.

The fire died down a bit. He turned back to the card game, "I believe I win."

"No, not quite, Mr. D," Chiron replied, setting down a straight and tallied the points. "The game goes to me."

I held my breath, thinking that Mr. D was going to vaporize Chiron right out of his wheelchair. Mr. D, however, just sighed exasperated, as if he was used to getting beaten by the Latin teacher.

"I'm tired," Mr. D said, reminding me of a sore loser. "I'm going to take a nap before the sing-along tonight. First, though, Grover, we need to talk."

Grover's face shined with sweat, "Y-yes, sir."

Mr. D turned to me, "Cabin eleven, Pelagia Jackson. Behave yourself."

He walked into the farmhouse, Grover following glumly.

"Will Grover be alright?" I asked Chiron.

Chiron nodded, though he looked a bit bothered, "Dionysus isn't really mad, he just hates his job. He's been…er…how I can say this? Ah…he's been grounded, you could say. He's too impatient to stand waiting another century before he's allowed to go back to Olympus."

"Mount Olympus," I said. "You mean there's an actual palace there?"

"Well, there is a Mount Olympus in Greece, but there is also the home of the gods, the convergence of their powers, their home, which used to be in Greece. It's still called Mount Olympus, out of respect of the ancient ways, but it moves, Pelagia, just like the gods and goddesses."

"You mean the Greek gods are here? Like…like…they're in America?"

"Certainly, the gods move with the heart of the West."

"The heart of the—what?"

"Come now, Pelagia. What you call 'Western Civilization,' do you think it's an abstract idea? No, it's a living force, and the gods of Olympus have been contacted to it for thousands of years. You could even say they are the foundation of it, or, at least, that they're so securely tied to it that they couldn't fade unless all of Western civilization was entirely annihilated. The fire started in Greece, and then, as you know—or I hope you know because you passed my course—the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. They did with different names—Jupiter-Zeus, Venus-Aphrodite, Minerva-Athena—but they were the same forces, same gods."

"And then they died?"

"Died? Did the west die? No, they simply moved to where ever the heart was brightest, to Germany, France, Spain—where ever. They spent several centuries in England. People do not forget the gods; all you need to do is look at the architecture. Every place they ruled, you can see them in art work; statues, paintings, on the most important buildings. And yes, Pelagia, now they're in the United States. Look at your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. The statue of Prometheus at Rockefeller Center, the Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. Try to find any American city where the Olympians or not prominently displayed. Like it or not—and believe me, several people weren't fond of Rome, either—America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the west, and Olympus is here. So here we are."

Oh my god, or is it 'gods' now? This was too much to handle; the Greek gods existed! And he kept saying 'we,' like I was apart in a club; the Club of the West. Calm down, Pelagia. Deep breaths.

"Who are you, Chiron? Who…who am I?"

Chiron smiled and shifted his wait, like he was about to rise up out of his wheelchair, but that was impossible; he was paralyzed from the waist down.

"Who are you?" he mused. "Now, isn't that the question we all want answered? But, for now, let's introduce you to cabin eleven. Besides, there are s'mores at the camp fire today, and I absolutely adore chocolate."

Just pretend I didn't say he was paralyzed from the waist down, because next he rose from his chair. It was weird, though; his blanket fell of his legs, but his didn't move. His waist just kept getting longer and longer, rising above his belt. For a moment, I thought he was wearing velvet underwear, but then he kept rising, taller than any human. He wasn't human (or, at least, fully human) nor was he wearing underwear. The white velvet was the front of an animal, muscle and sinew under coarse white fur. The wheelchair wasn't a wheelchair, but some kind of box that had magic of some sort because it shouldn't have been able to fit all of him. A leg came out, long and knobby-kneed, with a hoof. Then another front leg, then hindquarters, and, at last, the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with false human legs connected to it.

I ogled at the horse who had just sprung from the wheelchair; a huge, white stallion. Where it's neck should, however, was the upper body of my Latin teacher, easily attached to the horse's trunk.

"What a relief," the centaur said exhaling. "I'd been stuck in this thing for far too long, I'm afraid my fetlocks have fallen asleep. Now, come, Pelagia Jackson, let's meet the other campers."


	6. The Bathroom Lord

**_The Bathroom Lord_**

_**Disclaimer: I don't own PJO, Rick Riordon does. I don't own anything.**_

After I got over the fact that my Latin teacher was half horse, he gave me a tour of camp. I was careful, though, to stay in front or beside Chiron; I'm sorry, but I did not trust his rear end like I trusted his front.

As we passed the volleyball pit, campers stopped what they were doing. One even pointed to the shoebox I was carrying with the Minotaur horn it. Another said, "Look, that's her."

Most of the campers were older than me and their satyr friends were bigger than Grover. They were wearing the CAMP HALF-BLOOD shirts and nothing to cover their furry hindquarters. Normally, I was not a shy person, ask anyone. This—though—this made me uncomfortable, like they were expecting me to do some kind of complex gymnastics move.

I turned around to look at the farmhouse. It was big, bigger than I first thought; four stories tall, sky blue with white trim, like an upscale coastal resort. I was looking at the brass eagle when something caught my eye, a shadow in the window of the attic. Something had moved the curtain, just for a second, and I felt like I was being watched.

"What's up there?" I asked Chiron.

His eyes drifted to where I was pointing, and his smile faded, "Just the attic."

"Does somebody live there?"

"No," he said, "not a single living thing."

I felt like he was being truthful, but I could bet that I saw something move that curtain.

"Come along, now, Pelagia," his cheerful tone was now forced. "Lots to see."

We walked the strawberry fields, where campers were picking delicious looking mountains of berries while a satyr sat on a boulder nearby, playing a tune on his reed pipes.

Chiron told me how the camp grew a nice crop for New York City restaurants and Mount Olympus, "It pays our expenses," he said. "And the strawberries take little to no effort at all."

He explained how Mr. D had this effect on fruit bearing plants; they just went nuts when he was near. It worked best with wine grapes, but since Mr. D was restricted from growing those, they grew strawberries instead.

As I watched the satyr play his reed pipes, I realized that the music was making bugs fly away from the strawberries, like refugees fleeing a fire. Maybe Grover could do that with his reed pipes. Was he still inside, getting chewed out by Mr. D?

"Grover won't get in too much trouble, will he?" I asked. "He was a good protector. Really."

Chiron sighed and took off his jacket, draping it over his horse half like a saddle, "Pelagia, Grover has big dreams. Maybe bigger than are sensible. To reach his target, he must first demonstrate great bravery by succeeding as a keeper; finding a new camper and bringing them to safely to Camp Half-Blood."

"Be he did do that!"

"I know," Chiron agreed, "but it's not my place to judge. I do not decide, that's Dionysus and the Cloven Elders job. I'm afraid they might not see this assignment a success. After all, Grover lost you in New York. Then, there's the…uh…unfortunate fate of your mother. And the fact that Grover was cataleptic when you dragged him over the property line. They might question whether this shows any bravery on Grover's part."

I wanted to object, none of what happened was Grover's fault. And I also felt extremely remorseful for leaving Grover at the terminal, maybe he wouldn't have gotten in as much trouble if I stayed.

"He'll get a second chance, won't he, Chiron?"

Chiron visibly winced, "I'm afraid that was Grover's second chance, and the council was not particularly happy about giving him another one after what happened five years ago. Olympus knows, I advised him to wait longer before he tried again. He's so small for his age."

"How old is he?"

"Oh, twenty eight."

"What? No way! He's in Sixth Grade!"

"Satyrs mature half as fast as humans, Pelagia. Grover's been the equivalent of a middle school student for the past six years."

"Oh, that's awful!"

"Quite," Chiron agreed. "At any rate, Grover is a late bloomer, even by satyr standards, and not yet very accomplished in woodland magic."

"That's not fair," I said. "What occurred the first time? Was it really that bad?"

Chiron looked away rather quickly, "Let's move along, shall we."

But I wasn't quite ready to let the subject drop. Something had occurred to me when Chiron talked about my mom, as if he was purposefully avoiding the word 'death'. The start of an idea, a miniscule, optimistic fire, formed in my head.

"Chiron," I said. "If the gods and Olympus is real…"

"Yes, child?"

"Does that mean that the Underworld is real, too?"

Chiron's expression darkened, "Yes." He paused, choosing his next words carefully, "There is a dwelling for the spirit to go after death, but, until we know more, I urge you to put that out of your mind."

"What do you mean, 'until we know more'?"

"Come, Pelagia. Let's go see the woods."

As we got closer, I realized how huge the forest was. The woodland took up at least a quarter of the valley, with trees so thick and long that it seemed like no one had lived there since people first sailed to America.

"The woods are stocked, if you care to try your luck, but it is wise to go armed," Chiron said.

"Stocked with what?" I asked. "Armed with what?"

"You will see. Capture the flag is Friday night. Do you have your own sword and shield?"

"What? My own?"

"No, I don't suppose you do. A size five will probably do. I'll visit the armory later."

Armory? I wanted to ask what kind of camp had an armory, but there were too many other things on my mind to think about. As the tour continued, we saw the archery range, the canoeing lake, the stables (which Chiron most obviously hated), the javelin range, the sing-along amphitheater, and the arena. (Chiron said they held sword and spear fights there.)

"Sword and spear fights?" I asked him.

"Cabin challenges and all that," he replied. "Not fatal…usually. Oh, yes, the mess hall."

Chiron pointed to an outdoor pavilion, which was framed in by white Grecian columns, overlooking the sea. There were a dozen picnic tables, but no roof or walls.

"What happens when it rains?" I asked.

Chiron looked at me with an expression that suggested I had gone insane, "Well, we still have to eat, don't we."

With that, I let the subject drop.

At last, Chiron showed the cabins. Twelve cabins huddled in the woods by the lake. They were arranged in the shape of a 'U', two at the base and five in a row at either side. And they were, without a doubt, the most unusual gathering of buildings I had ever seen.

Except for the fact that each had a huge, brass number above the door (odds on the left side and evens on the right), they looked nothing alike. Cabin nine had smokestacks on it, like a tiny factory. Cabin four had tomato vines on the sides and the top was made of actual grass. Cabin seven seemed to be made out of solid gold, which shined so intense in the sun, you could barely look at it.

They all faced a common area about the size of a soccer field, it was dotted with Greek statues, fountains, flower beds, and a couple of basketball hoops, which I liked.

In the center of the field was a huge, stone-lined fire pit. Even though it was a hot afternoon, the center burned. A girl, about nine, was tending the flames, poking the coals with a stick. I hope she doesn't get burned.

The pair of cabins at the head of the field, cabin one and two, looked like his-and-hers burial chambers. Cabin one was the biggest, bulkiest of the twelve. Polished bronze doors shimmered like a hologram, giving the illusion that lightning bolts streaked across them. Cabin two was more elegant, with thinner columns decorated with flowers and pomegranates. The walls engraved with peacocks.

"Zeus and Hera?" I guessed.

"Correct," Chiron answered.

"Their cabins look empty."

"Several are. It's true, no one ever stays in one or two."

So, each cabin had a different god, like a mascot for a sports team. Twelve cabins for twelve Olympians, but why would some be empty?

I froze front of the first cabin on the left, cabin three.

It wasn't tall and mighty like cabin one, but long, short, and firm. The outer walls were rough grey stone, dotted with parts of seashells and coral, as if the portions had been hewn straight from the ocean floor. I peered inside the doorway.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that." Chiron said.

Before he could pull me back, however, my nose filled with the scent of salt, like the wind on the beach at Montauk. The inner walls glowed like abalone, there were six empty bunk beds with silk sheets turned down, but there was no sign that anyone had ever slept in the cabin. The place felt so depressed and isolated that I was glad when Chiron put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Come along, Pelagia."

Most of the other cabins were crowded with campers.

Cabin five was bright red, but the paint job was horrible, like someone splashed the color on with buckets and punches. The roof was lined with spiked cable and a stuffed wild boar's head hung over the entrance, and it's eyes seemed to monitor me. Inside I saw a bunch of mean looking kids, girls and boys, arm wrestling and arguing while rock music boomed. The loudest was a boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen; he wore a XXXL CAMP HALF-BLOOD T-shirt under a camouflage jacket and gave me a sneer when he saw me. He reminded me of Nick Bobofit, though this boy was much bigger and tougher looking, and his hair was longer, stringy, and brown instead of red.

I kept walking, trying to steer clear of Chiron's' hooves.

"I haven't seen any other centaurs," I observed.

"No," Chiron replied melancholy. "My kinsmen are wild, barbaric folk, I'm afraid. You might come across them in the wilderness or major sporting events. None here, though."

"You said your name was Chiron, are you really…"

He smiled down at me, "The Chiron from the stories? Instructor of Hercules and all that? Yes, Pelagia, I am."

"But, shouldn't you be dead?"

Chiron paused like the question fascinated him, "I honestly don't know about should be, but the truth is I can't be. You see, ages ago, the gods granted my wish; I could continue the work I loved as long as humanity needed me. I gained much…and I also lost much from that wish. But I'm still here, so one can only assume I'm still needed."

Being a teacher for three thousand years definitely wouldn't have made my Top Ten Things to Wish For list.

"Does it ever get boring?" I inquired.

"No, no," Chiron replied, "absolutely depressing at times, but never boring."

"Why depressing?"

Chiron seemed to turn hard of hearing again.

"Oh, look," he said. "Anthony's waiting for us."

The blond boy I met at the Big House was reading a book in front of the final cabin on the left, cabin eleven.

When we reached him, he looked at me judgmentally, like he was still thinking of how much I drooled.

I looked at the book, to see what he was reading, but I couldn't make out the title. At first, I thought my dyslexia was acting up, but then I realized the title wasn't even English. That's weird. The letter's looked Greek to me. Literally, Greek. There were pictures of temples, sculptures, and diverse types of pillars, like the ones in architecture book.

"Anthony," Chiron said, "I have masters' archery class at noon. Would you take Pelagia from here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Cabin eleven"—Chiron gestured towards the doorway of the cabin—"make yourself at home."

Out of all the cabins, eleven looked the most normal. It looked ancient, though. The threshold was worn down and the brown paint was chipped and peeling. Over the doorway was one of those doctor symbols, a winged pole with two snakes intertwined around it.

The inside was overcrowded, immensely overcrowded. So many sleeping bags were spread all over that it looked like the Red Cross set up an evacuation center there.

Chiron didn't go in, the door was too low for him, but when the campers saw him, they all bowed respectfully.

Chiron then galloped away towards the archery range.

I stood at the doorway, looking at the kids. They weren't bowing anymore, they were staring at me. Analyzing me. Sizing me up. I knew this routine; I've gone through it at plenty of schools.

"Go in," Anthony said.

So, I obviously tripped walking through the door, making a total fool of myself. I heard a few snickers in the back of the cabin, but no one said anything.

"Pelagia Jackson, cabin eleven," Anthony said.

"Regular or undetermined?" some kid asked.

I had no idea what they were talking about, but Anthony answered, "Undetermined."

The whole cabin groaned.

A girl older than the others, about nineteen, came forward looking at the campers of cabin eleven, "Now, come on, campers. That's what we're here for"—she then turned towards me—"Nice to meet you, Pelagia. You can have that spot on the floor over there."

The girl looked pretty cool. She was tall with long, sandy hair and a friendly smile. She wore an orange tank top, jean shorts, flip flops, and a leather necklace with five different color clay beads. The only thing unsettling about her appearance was that a scar from her right eye to her jaw, like a knife slash.

"This is Lucy," Anthony said, his tone was different. I turned around and saw him standing straight and his cheeks were tinged pink. When he saw me look, however, he glared at me, "She'll be your counselor, for now."

"What? For now?" I asked.

"You're undetermined," Lucy explained patiently. "They don't know which cabin to put you in, so you go here. Cabin eleven takes all newcomers. We naturally would, Hermes is the god of travelers."

I stared at the tiny spot on the floor that was now my space, the only thing I had to mark my spot was my shoebox with the Minotaur's horn. I certainly wasn't going to put that down, Hermes was also the god of thieves.

I scanned the faces of the campers, some sullen and suspicious, some grinning, and others eyeing me as if they couldn't wait to have the chance to pick pocket me.

"How long will I be in here?" I asked.

"Fair question," Lucy replied. "Until you're determined."

"And how long will that take?"

The whole cabin laughed.

"Come on!" Anthony suddenly said. "I'll show you the volleyball court."

"I've seen it already."

"Yeah, well, see it again!" He grabbed my wrist and dragged me out of the laughing cabin.

When we were a few feet away, he stopped, "Jackson, you have to do better than that!"

"What?"

He rolled his eyes and muttered, "I can't believe I thought you were the one."

"What is your problem?" I demanded. "The only thing I know is that I killed some bull-dude!"

"'Some bull-dude'," he scoffed. "Do you know how many kids wished they had your chance?"

"What chance? To die?"

"No! To fight the Minotaur! What do you think we train for?"

I shook my head, "If the thing I really killed was the Minotaur, the same one from the stories…"

"Yes."

"Then there's only one."

"Yes."

"He died like a gazillion years ago; Theseus killed him in the labyrinth."

"Pelagia, monsters don't die. They can be killed, but they don't die."

"Yeah, thanks, that makes so much sense."

"They don't have souls, like you and me. You can dissipate them for a while, if you're lucky a whole lifetime. Nonetheless, they are primal forces. Chiron calls them archetypes. They will always reform, no matter what."

It made me think about Mrs. Dodds, "Like if I killed on, accidentally, with a sword—"

"The Furr…I mean your math teacher. That's right, she's still out there. You just made her awfully livid."

"How do you know about Mrs. Dodds?"

"You talk in your sleep, too."

"You almost called her something, a Fury. They're Hades torturers, right?"

Anthony scanned at the ground, like he anticipated it to swallow him up. "You should not call them by name, even here, at Camp Half-Blood. We call them the Kindly Ones, if we even speak of them at all."

"So, there is nothing I can saw without it thundering?" I demanded. I sounded whiny, even to myself, but I didn't care then. "And why do I have to stay in cabin eleven anyway? That place is overcrowded. Besides, there are plenty of empty cabins over there." I pointed to the first few cabins.

Anthony paled, "Look, you don't just choose a cabin, Pelagia. It depends on your parents…uh…parent." He stared at me, waiting for it to click in my head.

"My mom is Sally Jackson," I said. "She works at Grand Central Station…or…she used to."

"I'm sorry about your mom, but she's not who I mean. I mean your other parent, your father."

"He's dead, I never knew him."

Anthony exhaled, he, clearly, had this conversation with other kids, "Your father's not dead, Pelagia."

"What? How do you know that? You know him?"

"No, or course not."

"Then how do you—"

"Because I know _you_, and _you_ wouldn't be here if you weren't one of _us_."

"You don't know anything about me."

"Really," he raised his eyebrows and walked around me in circles. "I bet you moved around from school to school. I bet you were kicked out of a lot of them."

I kept spinning to face him, "How do you—"

He cut me off, "I bet you were diagnosed with dyslexia, probably ADHD, too."

I tried to swallow my mortification, "What does that have to do with anything?!"

"Taken together, it's almost an unquestionable sign. The letters float off of the page when you read, huh? That's because your brain is hardwired for ancient Greek, not English. And the ADHD—your impulsive, you can't sit still. That's your battle reflexes; they keep you alive in a fight. As for the attention problems, that's because you see too much, not too little. Of course teachers want you medicated; most of them are monsters who want you killed. They don't want you to see them for who they really are."

"You…you sound like you went through the same thing."

"A lot of the kids here did. If you weren't like us, you wouldn't have survived the Minotaur, much less the ambrosia and nectar."

"Ambrosia and nectar?"

"The food and beverage we gave you to feel better. That stuff would've destroyed an ordinary kid; it would've turned your blood to fire and your bones to sand. You'd be dead! Face it, you're a half-blood!"

A half-blood.

My mind was really, I had so many questions I didn't even know where to start.

I didn't have to ask a question, however, because a rough voice than yelled, "What do we have here? A newbie!"

I turned around and saw the big kid from the ugly red cabin sauntering over with three other big, nasty looking boys wearing camo jackets.

"Clark," Anthony sighed annoyed. "Why don't you go shine your spear or something?"

"Okay, Mister," the big boy replied. "So I can run you through it Friday night."

"_Erre es korakas_!" Anthony growled, which I somehow understood was Greek for 'Go to the crows!' though I had a feeling it was a worse curse than it sounded. "You don't stand a chance!"

"We'll demolish you," Clark said, but his eye twitched, like he wasn't certain he could follow through on the threat. He then turned to me, his eyes glaring, "Who's the runt?"

"Pelagia Jackson," Anthony said, gesturing to me and then to Clark. "Meet Clark, Son of Ares."

I blinked, "Like…the war god?"

"Got a problem with that, runt?" Clark demanded.

"No," I replied, recovering my wits. "Just explains the bad smell."

"We got an opening ritual for newbies, Lagia."

"PEH-lagia!"

"Who cares? Come, though, I'll show you it."

Anthony tried to intervene, "Clark—"

"Mind your business, wise guy."

Anthony looked pained, but he did stay out of it, and I was glad, I didn't want his help. I was the new kid; I had to earn my own rep.

I handed Anthony my shoebox and got ready to fight. Before I knew it, however, Clark had me by the neck and was pulling me in the direction of this cinder-block building that I instantly knew was the bathroom.

I was kick and punching, I had been in plenty of fights before, but Clark had iron hands. He dragged me into the bathroom. It looked like any public bathroom; a line of toilet stalls down one side and a line of shower stalls down the other. It also smelled like any other bathroom, all nasty and stuff. Ew. Seriously, if this place belong to the gods, they should, at least, had classier lavatories.

Clark's friends were all laughing while I was trying to find the strength I had used when I fought the Minotaur. But my efforts were futile; it just wasn't there.

"Like she's 'Big Three' material!" Clark cackled as he pushed me down to one of the toilets. "Yeah, right! The Minotaur probably fell over because she was so stupid looking!"

His cronies laughed idiotically.

Anthony stood in the corner, watching the whole thing.

Clark bent me over on my knees and started pushing my head towards the toilet bowl. It reeked like rusted pipes and, well, what goes into toilets. Disgusting! I was straining to keep my head up. I won't go into that. I won't!

Then, something happened. There was a tug in my gut, the plumbing then rumbled and the pipes shuddered. Clark's agonizingly, tight grip on my hair loosened, which was a relief. Water shot straight out of the toilet, creating an arch over my head, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the bathroom tiles with Clark yelling behind me.

I turned around just in time to see more water shooting out of the toilet, ramming into Clark, knocking him to the ground. The water continued on him like a fire hose, pushing him backwards into the shower stall.

He thrashed, gasping, and his friends came over to him. But then the other toilets blasted, too, and six streams of water pushed them back. The showers then acted up, and the fixtures all squirted the camo boys out of the restroom.

As soon as they were out the door, the tug in my gut lessened and the water shut off immediately.

The entire bathroom was flooded, and Anthony hadn't been spared. He was soaked, but standing in the same place, gawking at me.

I stood up, my legs shaking.

"How did you—"Anthony started to ask.

"I don't know."

We walked towards the door. Outside, Clark and his friends were sprawled in mud with campers surrounding them, gaping. Clark's hair was flattened across his face. His jacket drenched and he smelled like a sewer. He gave me a look of complete loathing, "I'm going to kill you, runt! You're dead!"

I should've probably let it go, but I didn't, "You want to swallow some more toilet water, Clark? Shut up!"

His friends had to hold him back as he tried to charge at me. They dragged him to cabin five while the other campers made a path to avoid his thrashing arms.

Anthony stared at me, and I wasn't sure if he was grossed out or angry for me blasting him with toilet water.

"What?" I asked him. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking," he said, grinning slyly. "You're going to be on my team for capture the flag."

**Sorry about the lack of updating. I was busy. Special thanks to _skyler jackson chase_ who thought up of Wise Guy as Anthony's nickname. Hoped you liked it.**

**-Fae51**


	7. My Dinner Gets Burnt

_**My Dinner Gets Burnt**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own PJO, Rick Riordon does. I don't own anything.**_

The bathroom incident spread across camp immediately; wherever I went, people pointed to me and muttered something about toilet water, or maybe they were pointing to Anthony, who was still soaked.

Anthony showed me a couple of other places: the metal shop (where kids forged their own swords), the arts-and-crafts room (some satyrs were sandblasting a huge marble statue of some goat-man), and a climbing wall. The climbing wall involved of two opposite walls that shook violently, released boulders, squirted lava, and clashed together if you didn't make it to the top quick enough.

At last, we returned to the canoeing lake, where the path directed back to the cabins.

"I got training to do," Anthony said flatly. "Dinner is at seven thirty; follow your cabin to the mess hall."

"Hey, Anthony, I'm sorry about the toilets."

"Whatever."

"It wasn't my fault."

He looked at me doubtful. Okay, so maybe it was my fault. I didn't know that would happen. I didn't know how I did that. It was weird, the toilets answered to me. I had become one with the plumbing. Gross.

"You need to talk with the Oracle," Anthony said.

"Who?"

"No who. What."

"What?"

"The Oracle's a what. I'll ask Chiron."

I stared into the lake. Why can't someone give me a straight answer for once?

I wasn't expecting anyone to look back at me from the bottom of the lake (Who does?), so I was surprised when I saw two teenage girls sitting cross-legged at the base of the pier. They had blue jeans, gleaming green T-shirts, and their brown hair floated loose around their shoulders as minnows darted in and out. They smiled and waved as if I was their long lost friend.

I had no idea what to do, so I waved back.

"That's weird, naiads usually don't wave to girls," Anthony observed.

"Naiads," I repeated, completely overwhelmed. I took a deep breath, but it didn't help. "Okay, that's it. I want to go home."

Anthony frowned, "Don't you get it, Pelagia? You are home; this is the only safe place on Earth for kids like us."

"Mentally disturbed kids?"

"No, I mean not human. Well, not fully human anyway. Half-human."

"Half-human and half-what?"

"You know."

I didn't want to admit it, but I was afraid I did. I felt a tingling in my limbs, how I usually had gotten when my mom had talked about my dad.

"God," I replied. "Half-human…and half-god."

Anthony nodded, "Your father isn't dead, Pelagia, he's one of the Olympians."

"That's insane!"

"Is it? What's the most common things the gods did in myths? They ran around falling love with mortals and having kids with them. What? Do you think they changed their habits in the last few millennia?"

"But those are just—" I wanted to say myths, but I remembered Chiron's warning about me being a myth two thousand years into the future. "But if all these kids are half-gods—"

"Demigods," Anthony interrupted, "that's the official term. Or half-bloods."

"—Who's your dad?"

Anthony's grip on the railing tightened so much that his knuckles turned white. Uh-oh, sensitive subject.

"My father is a professor at West Point," he replied. "I haven't seen him since I was little. He teaches American history."

"Oh, so who's your mom?"

"Cabin six."

"I don't know the cabins. That's who?"

Anthony straightened, "Athena, goddess of wisdom and battle."

Okay, why not?

"And my dad?"

"Undetermined," Anthony answered, "like I said before, nobody knows who your father is."

"Except my mom, she knew."

"Maybe she didn't, Pelagia. Gods don't always reveal their identities."

"My dad would, he loved her."

Anthony looked at me cautiously, like he didn't want to burst my bubble. He softened a bit, "Maybe your right. He might send a sign. That's the only way you'll know for sure; if your father sends a sign."

"Might? You mean sometimes it doesn't happen?"

Anthony ran his hand along the railing, "The gods are busy. They have a lot of kids and…well…sometimes they don't care about us. They ignore us, Pelagia."

My mind wandered to some of the kids in the Hermes cabin, sullen and depressed, waiting for a sign that would never come. There were some kids I met like that at Yancy Academy, shipped off to boarding school because rich parents didn't have the time to deal with them. But these were the gods, they should behave better.

"So…I'm stuck here?" I asked. "For the rest of my life?"

"Depends," Anthony replied. "If you're a child of Aphrodite or Demeter, you're likely not to be a real powerful force. The monsters might overlook you, so you could come here for the summer for a few months of training and then live in the mortal world for the rest of the year. But some of us, it's too perilous to leave. We're year-rounders. In the mortal world, we attract monsters. They sense us, and then challenge us. They usually leave you alone until you're ten or eleven, old enough to cause trouble. After that, though, most demigods make it here, or die along the way. A few manage to survive in the outside world and become famous. Believe me, if I told you their names, you'd know them. Some might not even realize they're demigods, but very, very few are like that."

"Oh, so monsters can't get in here?"

Anthony shook his head, "Not unless they're intentionally stocked in the woods or someone summoned one."

"Why would someone summon a monster?"

"Practice fights or pranks."

"Pranks?"

"The point is, the borders are sealed to keep monsters and mortals out. When a mortal looks at the valley from the outside of the borders, they see nothing unusual, just a strawberry field."

"Oh. So…you're a year-rounder?"

Anthony nodded, "Yep." He pulled out a leather necklace from under his shirt; the necklace had five different colored beads, just like Lucy's, but there was also a gold ring on it.

"Been here since I was seven," he said. "Every August, on the last day of summer session, you get a bead for surviving another year. I've been here longer than most counselors, and they're all in collage."

"Why'd you come so young?"

Anthony spun the ring on his necklace, "Mind your own business!"

"Oh, sorry." We stood in an uncomfortable silence. "So, I can just walk out here right now if I wanted to?"

"That would be suicide, but you could, with Chiron or Mr. D's permission. But, they wouldn't give permission until summer ends…unless…"

"Unless what?"

"You were granted a quest, but that rarely happens. Last time…"

His voice trailed off, and I could guess from his tone, last time didn't end well.

"Back in the sick room," I said. "When you were giving me that stuff—"

"Ambrosia."

"Yeah—you questioned me something about the summer solstice."

Anthony tensed, "So you do know something?"

"Well, no, but back at my old school, I heard Grover and Chiron talking about it. Grover mentioned something about a deadline, and they didn't have enough time. What did they mean?"

Anthony ran his hand though his hair and sighed exasperatedly, "I wish I knew. Chiron and satyrs know, but they won't tell me. Something's wrong on Olympus, and something major. Last time I've been there, everything seemed so normal."

"Whoa! You've been to Olympus?"

"Some of us year-rounders—Lucy, Clark, a few others, and I—have been. We took a field there for the winter solstice. That's when the gods have their big annual council."

"How'd you get there?"

"The Long Island Railroad, obviously. You get off at Penn Station, to the Empire State Building, and take the special elevator to the six hundredth floor." He looked at me like he was sure I should know this already. "You are a New Yorker, right?"

"Yeah," I replied. There were only a hundred and two floors in the Empire State Building, though.

"Right after I visited," Anthony continued. "The weather had gotten weird, like some of the gods were fighting. I overheard the satyrs talking a couple of times, saying something about an object being stolen, a really major object, and if it wasn't returned by the Summer Solstice, there was going to be issues. When you came…I mean—Athena can get along with about everybody, except for Ares and, of course, she has an old rivalry with Poseidon. Aside from that, however, I thought maybe we can work together. Thought you might know something?"

I shook my head in response. I wished I could help him, but I felt tired and too mentally overloaded to ask any more questions.

"I've got to get a quest," Anthony muttered to himself. "I'm not too young!"

I could smell barbecue smoke coming from somewhere nearby. Anthony might've heard my stomach growl, or maybe that was his; I wasn't sure, because he told me to head back to the Hermes Cabin. I left him on the pier, drawing on his palm as if he was making a battle plan.

Back at the Hermes Cabin, everyone was chatting and horsing around, waiting for dinner. For the first time, I realized several of the campers had similar features; sharp noses, upturned eyebrows, and mischievous smiles. They were the kind of kids teachers would peg as mischief-makers. Luckily, nobody paid me any real attention as I walked over to my place on the floor and put down my shoe box.

Lucy, the counselor, came over. She had the family resemblance, too. It was tainted by the scar on her right cheek, but her smile was undamaged.

"I found you a sleeping bag," she said. "And, here, I stole you some toiletries."

I doubted she was kidding about the stealing part.

"Thanks," I replied.

"No prob," Lucy replied. She sat down next to me, her back against the wall, "Rough first day?"

"I don't belong here," I said. "I don't believe in gods."

"Yeah," she said. "That's how most of us started. And once you start believing it doesn't get any better."

The bitterness in her voice surprised me; she seemed like a pretty nice person. She looked like she could handle anything.

"So," I said, "your dad's Hermes?"

Lucy pulled a switchblade out of her pocket and, for a moment, I thought she was going to hurt me, but she just started filing her nails with it, "Yep, Hermes."

"The winged-footed messenger dude?"

"That's him. Medicine. Travel, thieves, merchants. Anybody who uses the roads. That's why you're here, enjoying cabin eleven's hospitality. Hermes isn't really picky about who he sponsors."

I figured Lucy didn't mean to call me a nobody; she just had a lot on her mind.

"You ever meet your dad?" I asked her.

"Once."

I waited, if she wanted to tell me, she would. Apparently, she didn't. I pondered if the story had anything to do if how she got her scar.

Lucy looked up and managed a smile, "Don't worry about it, Pelagia. The campers here, they're mostly good people. We're extended family, after all. Right? We take care of each other."

She seemed to fathom how lost I felt. I was thankful for that, because an older kid like her—even if she was a counselor—should've stayed clear of an uncool middle-schooler like me. She had even stolen me some toiletries, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for me all day.

After a mental debate, I decided to ask her my big question, the one that has been unsettling and consuming my thoughts all day, "Clark, from the Ares cabin, was joking about me being 'Big Three' material. And then—twice—Anthony said I might be 'the one' and I should talk to the Oracle…what was all that about?"

Lucy folded her knife, "I hate prophecies."

"Why? What do you mean?'

She, probably subconsciously, ran a finger along her scar, "We can just say that I kind of messed things up for everybody. Ever since my trip to the Garden of Hesperides went sour, Chiron hasn't allowed anymore quests. Anthony's wanted to get out into the world so badly. He even pestered Chiron so much that Chiron said he already knew Anthony's fate. Anthony had to wait until somebody…somebody special came to camp."

"Somebody special?"

"Look, don't worry about it, kid," Lucy said. "Anthony likes to think every new kid that comes to camp is that person. Now, come on, it's dinner time."

The moment he said it, a horn blew in the distance. A conch horn. Though I wasn't sure how I knew it, I've never heard a conch horn before.

The whole cabin of us, about twenty of us, filed into the common yard. We lined up in order of seniority. So, of course, I was dead last. Campers came from the other cabins, too, except for the three cabins at the end and cabin eight, which had looked normal in the daytime, but was now starting to glow silver as the sun set.

We went up the hill to the mess hall pavilion. Satyrs joined from the meadow, naiads arose from the lake. A few other girls came from the woods. And when I say woods, I mean woods. I saw a girl about nine or ten melt from the side of a maple tree and come skipping up the hill.

In all, there were about a hundred campers, a few dozen satyrs, and a dozen assorted naiads and wood nymphs.

At the pavilion, torches shined around marble columns. A central fire burned with a bronze brazier the size of a bathtub. Each cabin had its own table, with white cloth trimmed in purple, but four of the tables were empty. This wasn't the case for cabin eleven's table; it was way overcrowded; I had to squeeze on the edge of the bench, hanging half off.

I saw Grover sitting at table twelve with Mr. D, a couple of plump blond boys who looked like Mr. D, and a few other satyrs. Chiron stood to one side, the table being too small for a centaur.

Anthony sat at table six with a bunch of other serious looking athletic kids, all with the same grey eyes and honey-blond hair.

Clark sat behind me at Ares' table. He had, apparently, gotten over being doused in toilet water because he laughing and belching along with his friends.

At last, Chiron pounded his hoof along the marble floor and everybody fell silent. He then raised his glass, "To the gods!"

Everybody raised their glasses, "To the gods!"

Wood nymphs came forward with platters of food. There were grapes, apples, strawberries, cheese, fresh bread, and yes, barbecue.

I looked at my glass, it was empty, but Lucy said to me, "Tell it what you want. Whatever you want. But, of course, non-alcoholic."

I followed her advice, "Cherry Coke."

The glass filled itself with sparkling, caramel colored liquid.

Then, I had an idea, "Blue Cherry Coke."

The soda turned a violet shade of cobalt.

I took a sip. Perfect.

To my mom, who isn't gone. Well, not permanently, anyway. She's in the Underworld and if that's a real place, the someday…

"Here you go, Pelagia," Lucy said, handing me a platter of smoked brisket.

"Thanks," I replied. I loaded my plate and was about to take a bite when I noticed everybody getting up, carrying their plates towards the fire at the center of the pavilion. Were they going for dessert?

"Come on," Lucy told me.

As I got closer, I noticed that everyone was taking a portion of their meal, the ripest strawberry, the juiciest slice of beef, or the warmest, most buttery roll, and dropping it into the fire.

"Burnt offerings for the gods," Lucy muttered to me. "They like the smell."

"You're joking."

Her look warned me not to take this lightly, but why would an immortal, all powerful _god_ like the smell of burnt food?

Lucy approached the fire, bowed her head, and tossed in a cluster of fat grapes, "Hermes."

I was next.

I wished I knew which god's name to say, but I didn't.

Finally, I made a silent plead. _Whoever you are, please tell me._

I scraped a big slice of brisket into the fire.

When I caught the scent of the smoke, I didn't gag, as I expected.

It didn't smell like burning food, it smelt like hot chocolate, fresh baked brownies, wildflowers, hamburgers on a grill, and a hundred of other goods stuff that shouldn't have gone well together, but they did. I could almost believe the gods could live off of that smoke.

When everybody had returned towards their seats and finished eating their meals, Chiron pounded his hoof on the ground again.

Mr. D stood up with a huge sigh, "Yes, I suppose I better say hello to you brats. Well, hello. Our activities director, Chiron, says the next capture the flag is Friday. Cabin five currently holds the laurels."

A bunch of loud, ugly cheering resounded from the Ares table.

"Personally," Mr. D continued, "I couldn't care less, but congrats. Also, I should tell you that we have a new camper today, Penny Johnson."

Chiron muttered something.

"Er…Pelagia Jackson," Mr. D corrected. "Yeah, that's right. Hurrah, and all that. Now run along to your silly campfire. Go on. Shoo."

Everybody cheered a head towards the amphitheater, where the Apollo Cabin led a sing-along. We sang camp songs about gods, ate s'mores, and joked around. The funny thing was, I didn't feel as if people we're staring at me anymore. I felt I was at home.

Later in the evening, when the sparks of the campfire were curling into the starry sky, the conch horn blew again, and we all filed back towards our cabins. I didn't realize how tired I was until I collapsed on my borrowed sleeping bag.

With my hand on my shoe box for safe keeping, I thought about my mom. But the good things. Her smile, the bedtime story she would read me as a little girl, when she would say, "Don't let the bedbugs bite."

When I closed my eyes, I fell immediately asleep.

That's was my first day at Camp Half-Blood.

I wish I had known how briefly I would enjoy my new home.

**Oh my gods, I am _so_ sorry; I haven't updated in forever. Siriusly, I apologize. My laptop had been taken away from me. Well, enough of my babbling, though I am sorry.**

**I hoped you liked the chapter! The next _will_ be up sooner.**_  
_

**-Fae51**


	8. Author's Note

**Oh my gods, I'm sorry about my complete lack of updating. In all honesty, I'm getting a bit stuck on some parts, because, well...because these characters were made to be...well...the gender they are. Another reason is because I getting quite busy and all that. I know I promised to do the chapters quicker and everything, but I might do about two, maybe three, chapters a month. I'm not abandoning it, for those people who actually like this story.**

**Complete and utterly sorry for all you readers.**

**Yours in demigodishness and all that!**

**-Fae51**


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